Out of Season
by Sister Rose
Summary: If Ryan weren't going to school with Newport's scions, he would be working for them.
1. Default Chapter

"Out of Season"

Part One

By Sister Rose

Disclaimer: The characters of "The O.C." belong to Fox and no infringement on those rights is intended in this fictional work.

Ryan Atwood was glad to take a break when his boss waved him over. Dust from the construction site filled the air and coated his dry throat. He swallowed water from his jug and put it back down before answering the summons.

As he got closer, he could see two other people with Mr. Roberts, two people who looked more familiar as Ryan got closer.

Slightly panicked, he realized it was too late to walk away even as he recognized them and the trap he was in.

He nodded to his boss. "Mr. Roberts," he said.

"Atwood," Mr. Roberts said. "I need you to run an errand for me. I'm going to be talking with Mrs. Cohen for a while."

"Yes, sir," Ryan said, eyes on the ground. It was possible they wouldn't recognize him. It had been a long time. His hard hat covered his hair. He was older, and his face had more lines -- and more scars.

"Ryan Atwood?" said a tenor voice.

Ryan nodded.

"I almost didn't recognize you under the hard hat," the man -- boy, really -- went on.

Ryan looked up. Seth looked just the same as always. He was playing with the straps of a hard hat instead of wearing it, banging it against his knee, twirling it. No skateboard. He wondered where Seth was going to college, whether he still read comic books, whether he still lived in that enormous house with the warm swimming pool and hot tub, just over the ocean. He wished he didn't have to hope that Seth didn't remember him.

"Do you know Ryan?" Mr. Roberts said.

"Sure," Seth said. "It's been a while, though."

"Yes, it has," Ryan said. "It's good to see you, Mrs. Cohen. Mr. Cohen."

Ryan nodded to them. He met Seth's eyes for an instant. They were still brown and full of an emotion Ryan didn't recognize. He looked back at the ground. He knew better than to stare at the suits who came to the site.

"Seth," Seth said.

"Seth," Ryan repeated, trying to make it sound like "Mr. Cohen."

Ryan could feel Mrs. Cohen's blue eyes on him, eyes that matched her expensive blue suit. It had probably cost more than his pickup. He held his body still, trying not to squirm suspiciously under the blue stare.

"Do you know each other?" Mrs. Cohen said.

"Yeah, Mom, remember Ryan? He stayed with us one weekend back when I was 16," Seth said.

Mrs. Cohen was frowning, obviously trying to place Ryan. He hoped she wouldn't remember.

"That was a long time ago, Mrs. Cohen," Ryan said. "Did you need something, Mr. Roberts?"

He turned away from Seth and Mrs. Cohen.

"Yeah, Atwood," Mr. Roberts said. "Would you take the truck and run to the lumber yard? They've got an order waiting."

"Yes, sir. It's good to see you again, Mrs. Cohen," Ryan said. He nodded at Seth to avoid using his name, then toward Mrs. Cohen, took Mr. Roberts' keys and walked away.

Ryan thought he had a clean escape, but then he heard jogging footsteps behind him. No one on a construction site jogged. It could only be Seth.

"So," Seth said. "Hey. So. Great to see you again. Long time and all that. Um. What have you been doing with yourself?"

"Working."

"Working. That's it?" Seth turned around and jogged backward, facing Ryan for this quiz.

"Pretty much," Ryan said, wishing the past hadn't come to visit. "Mr. Roberts hired me a couple of years ago."

He kept walking toward the truck. He could hear his own booted footsteps echoing in his ear bones. He knew Mrs. Cohen was in the construction trailer right now. He pictured her standing in front of Mr. Roberts' metal desk, scattered with blueprints and payables, the slight scent of sawdust in the air, her crisp blue suit at odds with the disarray around her.

"Get rid of him," he saw her saying. "He's a troublemaker. He got my kid drunk and beat up."

Ryan could barely hear Seth talking, peppering him with questions. His own thoughts raced at a speed to rival Seth's words.He knew exactly how replaceable he was. Mr. Roberts had no reason to keep him on if Newport's largest employer didn't want Ryan around.

He tried to focus. Even if Mrs. Cohen didn't demand that Mr. Roberts get rid of him right away, if Ryan offended Seth then Mrs. Cohen or Mr. Roberts found out about it, he could be just as gone. Who would hire him if -- when -- they found out he had been fired at the request of the Newport Group? No one, that was who. Ryan had to please Seth.

"... and I'd love to have coffee and catch up with you," Seth said.

"Sure," Ryan said.

They were at the truck. Ryan stopped, hand on the door.

"So," Seth said. "Tonight?"

"Sure," Ryan said.

"What's your phone number?" Seth said, grabbing his cell out of a pocket that appeared to also hold three pencils, two paper clips, a pen, a Gameboy, a wad of folded papers and a pack of spearmint gum. He flipped the phone open, ready to program in the number.

"I, uh, don't have one," Ryan said.

Seth looked at him a minute, clearly seeing more than Ryan was saying. Ryan remembered that about Seth. It was going to make a conversation with him -- if it happened -- more dangerous.

"What time do you get off?" Seth said. "I'll pick you up."

Ryan hesitated, then said, "Usually by 6."

He glanced over his shoulder at the construction crew. No one was looking, but he knew everyone knew he was talking to Mrs. Cohen's son instead of working.

Seth watched him closely.

"If you don't want to, that's cool," he said. "I just thought it would be nice to catch up."

"No," Ryan said hastily. "It would be good to talk."

He touched the silver door handle, caught himself and pulled his hand back. He put it in his pocket, along with the other one, so they wouldn't get him in trouble. His rough skin caught on the cheap fabric of his shiny pants and he could feel the material pulling. He took his hands back out of his pocket and crossed his arms, putting those wayward hands in his armpits.

"So," Seth said, watching Ryan fidget. "You probably need to take off. I'll catch you later."

"Goodbye," Ryan said.

He got into the truck and started it, but he didn't drive away immediately. He watched Seth walk back toward the construction trailer, dark curls bobbing as if they wanted to take independent flight. He knew talking to Seth was a one-shot.

He wished he could have asked Seth about college and skateboarding, but he knew that when he got back from the lumber yard, Mr. Roberts would have a pink slip ready for him. Ryan wondered how drunk he could get with his final check.

He put the truck in gear and let out the clutch.


	2. Part Two

"Out of Season:

Part Two

By Sister Rose

Disclaimer: The characters of "The O.C." belong to Fox and no infringement on those rights is intended in this fictional work.

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Ryan Atwood was surprised to still have a job at the end of the day. He was surprised again when Seth drove up, swirling dust.

"Nice ride," Ryan said.

"My mom finally gave in and got me a car," Seth said. "About two years after everyone else in Newport. I was the oldest person at Harbor still skating to school. Finally convinced Mom that I absolutely HAD to have the wheels, that I didn't care what they were, and I got this from Luke's Big Gay Dad. Mom liked it because it looked safe. I didn't really care what it looked like, but it's nice not to use my feet to get around anymore."

"It's a nice car," Ryan repeated. "Turbo?"

"I have no idea."

They stared at each other. Just before the long silence got awkward, Seth offered, "Coffee?"

"Where?" Ryan said.

"There's a shop on campus," Seth said. "Parking's kind of fierce, though. I could drive us."

"Sure," Ryan said. He opened the car door and realized he couldn't sit on the nice upholstery in his work clothes.

"I'm kind of dirty," he said, closing the door and talking across the car's roof. "How about I follow you?"

"Oh," Seth said, halfway inside. "I can get it cleaned, if you get it dirty. It's due for a detailing anyway."

"No, really," Ryan said. "I'm not dressed for a coffee shop. There's a diner about a mile away. How about I meet you there. Nina's."

"OK," Seth agreed.

Inside his pickup, Ryan gave himself a couple of mental thumps. Idiot, he thought. Seth's used to frappuccino latte caramel grandes with half-skim, half-soy or something. He won't like the stout trucker coffee at Nina's

Ryan pulled into Nina's lot and waited for Seth to park. He banged the pickup door's sweet spot twice absently, trying to open it, and dredged up every detail he could about the best time of his life. What did Seth like to do? What did Seth want to talk about?

Seth's car door slid open with the buttery mechanics of expensive equipment, and Seth's lanky legs hit the pavement. Ryan opened his mouth to offer to follow Seth to his favorite coffee shop, to apologize for the surroundings, to say something, anything, but Seth started talking first.

"Do they have pancakes?" he said, eagerly. "I've always wanted to do the pancake tour of North America. I could start right here."

"They have pancakes," Ryan said, watching Seth's purposeful trek toward the diner door. Ryan followed.

At the table, Seth poured syrup over his double stack, cut out a gooey wedge and stuffed his mouth before sucking back half a cup of sludge that had been sitting in the pot since breakfast, as far as Ryan knew.

"Ah," Seth pronounced. "Nirvana. And speaking of bands, who are you listening to these days?"

"I don't really listen to music that much," Ryan said, hesitantly. He didn't actually listen to music that much, and it would be easier to agree with Seth if Ryan didn't express a preference. Ryan added sugar to his coffee and stirred. If he drank it slowly, it might fool his stomach into thinking it had food inside.

"Seriously? That's kind of weird," Seth said. "You remember Marissa, the girl who lived next door to me? Well, it turned out we had all the same taste in music and we were sharing CDs right up until she killed herself. OD'd in Mexico after she found out her boyfriend was cheating on her. But she was cheating on him, so I don't really know why she got so upset about it."

Seth had continued stuffing in pancakes during this recitation.

"Aren't you having any?" he said. "These are pretty good."

"No, I get them enough," Ryan said. "I work here on the weekends."

"You do?" Seth said. "Doing what? I can't see you in that cute little waitress outfit."

Ryan looked around. The waitress outfit in question featured a skirt that was at least two inches longer than it needed to be to keep the waitress out of jail for indecent exposure.

"I work in the back," he said. "What are you doing these days? Where are you going to college? The last time I saw your dad, he said you were considering the East Coast."

"You've talked to my dad," Seth said.

"Yeah but not in a while," Ryan said. "He was my lawyer until ..."

"...Until the divorce," Seth said. "He kind of dropped out of sight after that, I guess. I haven't talked to him in a while."

Seth shifted in the diner booth and stirred his pancake syrup with his fork.

"I'm sorry," Ryan said. "I shouldn't have brought it up."

Inside, he was cursing himself. He had forgotten how easy it was to talk around Seth, how easy it was to let go his guard and say too much. He had to be more careful.

"No," Seth said. "It's nice to talk to someone who doesn't hate him. That's all I hear from Mom and Gramps, about how ideals cost too much."

"He was really good to me," Ryan said. He wanted to say more, but he had a sinking feeling that he had been one of the overpriced ideals that had cost Mr. Cohen a marriage. Too, saying anything good about Mr. Cohen might be considered a slam at Mrs. Cohen or Mr. Nichol. "You all were. I don't think I ever said thanks."

Seth waved his hand, shaking off the gratitude.

"It was Mom and Dad," he said.

Ryan sipped more coffee.

"So where did you go?" Seth said.

"Your dad got me into a group home," Ryan said. "I lived there for a while. Now I'm working for Mr. Roberts."

Seth looked at Ryan for a long time. Maybe he was waiting for more. Maybe he was looking at the scars on Ryan's cheeks, the lopsided nose, and speculating. Ryan had left a lot of blanks in his story. Like the amount of time he spent in the group home, the amount of time he spent on the streets and the amount of time he spent in juvie after being picked up for being on the streets and violating his probation.

He couldn't afford to tell Seth much of the truth. Mr. Roberts knew Ryan had been in juvie, but he couldn't expect someone like Mrs. Cohen to be understanding about having a former juvenile delinquent working for her or talking to her son.

Seth might think being with an ex-con was cool, but Seth didn't do the hiring and firing, so Seth wasn't going to find out.

"He's been really good to me," Ryan added quickly, hoping to stave off more questions. "What about you?"

"Well, I'm a junior now, majoring in English," Seth said. "I'm thinking about sailing around the world this summer."

"I remember you talking about Tahiti," Ryan said.

Seth grinned. "Yeah, it's been the plan for a while now. Last time I went to Tahiti it was just for the summer and I was by myself and it wasn't so much fun. But this time the plans go a bit further. I'm taking the year off from college to sail around the world, or at least the Pacific, with a friend."

"Who's going with you?" Ryan said.

"I've changed the name of my boat," Seth said. "It's the Anna Away now, if that gives you a clue."

"Anna? Is that your girlfriend's name?" Ryan said.

"Not really my girlfriend," Seth said. "We're too much alike. But we're good friends."

Ryan hesitated, afraid what he wanted to say would sound wrong, then said it anyway, "I'm glad you have a friend now."

"I thought I had two," Seth said. "Aren't we friends?"

"Sure," Ryan said. It was nice of Seth to say. Ryan remembered Seth was always nice. It was one of the things he had liked about the rich kid. That and his naivete, his innocent confidence that the world would be good to him.

"And now that I know where to find you, you can count on seeing me more often," Seth said.

"Sure," Ryan said.

Ryan checked by the cash register. A souvenir Mickey wall clock said it was 7:20. He was going to be in trouble for being late. "I'm sorry to run. I've got to be somewhere. I'll take care of the check as I leave."

"I can get it," Seth said. "I invited you."

"Naw," Ryan said. "My treat. Besides, I get the employee discount."

He hollered toward the register. "Joyce, would you put this on my tab?"

"Sure thing, hon," she yelled back. "Just come up here and sign."

Seth smiled at the byplay.

"Maybe next time you'll come to the coffee shop with me and I'll make you drink a double mocha latte with half skim and half soy," he said, lifting himself out of the vintage vinyl seat. The vinyl squeaked and the foam sighed as Seth pushed out of the booth.

Ryan blushed and gave Seth his first real grin. "Maybe so," he agreed.


	3. Part Three

Part Three

Standard disclaimer applies.

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There was someone besides Ryan Atwood in Ryan Atwood's bed. Not a surprise. And she was female. Also not a surprise. She was wearing clothes, though, and that was a surprise. It was a Thursday. Usually by this time, she was naked.

"Hey," he said.

"Atwood," she said. "You're late. Daddy said everybody left the site by 6. Where have you been?"

"Stopped for coffee," he said. "I haven't had a shower yet."

"Ew," Summer said. "Go."

Ryan pulled off his shirt, a cloud of sawdust following as the shirt puffed to the floor. He bent down to unlace his work boots. He needed to brush them tonight, make them last longer.

"What did Daddy have you doing today," Summer asked, flipping through the pages of a fashion magazine.

"Running errands," he said.

No, wait, that wasn't a fashion magazine. It was a Cosmo. Ryan had seen the cover at the grocery store: "10 Secret Tips to Drive Your Man Wild in Bed."

Ryan's stomach tightened in anticipation and a little fear. Summer didn't need any help driving him wild in bed. Of all the women he had slept with, Summer was already the wildest.Keeping her satisfied would be a full-time job if he didn't already have two. No secret tips, please.

Then he started thinking about what those secret tips might be and where they might instruct Summer to put her mouth and what they might instruct her to whisper when her tongue wasn't busy otherwise and what her breath would feel like ruffling across his skin.

A shower was going to be completely necessary, he thought. Socks followed the shirt, then his undershirt, darkly stained with his sweat, his proof of value, his evidence that for today, at least, he had a job and had done it. He hoped he would have more sweaty clothes the next day.

Ryan opened his closet and came out with a black plastic garbage bag already half-full of dirty clothes. He added the stinky ones he had just taken off.

His hands went to his waistband and he started unbuttoning his pants. Summer stopped flipping through the magazine and peered over the top of it to watch him. He watched her watching his hands, and they faltered.

"Keep going," she said softly. It was an order, nonetheless, and Ryan knew it.

The model on the magazine cover had lips the same color as Summer's, but the model's lips weren't so full, so kissable. Ryan's eyes were on Summer's lips as his hands started their task again, slower than before.

He fumblingly finished and started pushing his work pants down his legs. Muscled thighs came into view, framed by white boxers.

Summer's tongue peeped out and she licked her peach-stained lips, quickly.

Ryan's hands somehow found their way to the waistband of his boxers.

"Stop," Summer said. His hands were glad to oblige. They had sort of forgotten what they had been doing and how to do it.

She got out of bed. Ryan had been wrong. She wasn't wearing clothes. She was wearing a robe. It might be a robe. He hadn't seen it before and didn't know enough about women's clothing to be sure what to call it.

Summer's blue robe, he thought. Summer's barely tied, see-through robe, with fluffy stuff on the edges. He could see the length of her olive legs from her fluffy blue shoes all the way up to her throat, surrounded by more fluffy blue stuff. At least he thought that the robe was see-through all the way up to Summer's throat. His gaze hadn't actually gotten that far.

"Atwood," she snapped. His eyes popped back to her face and he swallowed. She smiled. "Glad you like the new lingerie."

Her hands went to the waistband of his boxers. Her nails matched her lips. Soft, kissable peach hands, brushing across his belly. Soft, full peach lips following them.

Ryan quit thinking about his job, about Seth, about anything but Summer.

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They hadn't made it to the bed. Summer's head fit in the curve of Ryan's shoulder, dark hair fluffing out over his chest and face. Ryan lifted a strand of hair out of his eyes and tucked it gently behind her ear before pressing a kiss to her temple.

"How did my mules end up on the windowsill?" Summer asked.

"Probably the same way my shorts ended up on the punching bag. And who wears shoes to bed anyway?"

"It all matched. I saw it in Elle."

"That explains it," Ryan said.

She reached across her body to thwack him in the belly. As she turned her head, she gave an experimental sniff.

"You stink," Summer said.

"That's what you like about me," Ryan said. "But you smell nice. Thanks for the surprise."

"My pleasure," Summer said. "Really."

Ryan gently moved Summer aside and got to his feet. He bent down and picked her up. How could someone so curvy weigh so little, he thought.

"What are you doing?" she said.

"You shouldn't be on the floor," he said. He placed her on the bed and started toward the bathroom.

"Don't take too long," Summer told him. "I'll get bored and start changing things."

Ryan half-smiled at the threat. She had done it before. That was how he had ended up with a pink bath mat and huge, fluffy pink towels in his bathroom.

Summer's boredom also was responsible for the long-handled loofah and strawberry-scented moisturizing Vitamin E-enriched body wash in his shower, a loofah and body wash he was about to use. Because they came from Summer. He didn't care about the daily ribbing he took at work for his sweet smell.

Under the water, Ryan scrubbed his body hard. He couldn't be rich for Summer, but he could be clean. He used a nail brush to remove every speck of construction grime from under his fingernails.

He thought about the sex. He wondered whether Summer was getting bored with him, not just with waiting. He was doing his best to please her, and she had certainly screamed loudly there at the end. But if she had to read up on sex tips, maybe he wasn't getting the job done.

Summer was the only one who had ever made him feel this insecure. With every other woman, he had been confident that pleasure had been given and taken in equal measure. But then, Summer wasn't like any other woman he had ever known in any other way, so why should sex be different?

The lazy dribble of water over his head became a trickle and then gave out entirely before Ryan finished.

He wiped off the last of the soap before wrapping his waist in pink and stepping out of the shower onto the fluffy, pink bathmat. It almost hid the dirt ground into the corners of the bathroom. He was going to have to take an evening to do some housecleaning again. Maybe a stronger cleanser would do the trick, and a heavier brush. Maybe he could get them with his last paycheck, he thought morbidly.

But if it was going to be his last paycheck, he wouldn't be able to afford this room anymore and wouldn't need to worry about cleaning the corners. He shook his head to clear it and decided to worry about that problem later.

Ryan stepped out of the bathroom, letting the steam into the only other room, his bedroom/sitting room/dining room/guest room. His guest was sitting on the worn-to-nubs bed cover, wearing a mini skirt, leaning on both pillows at the head of the bed and flipping through her Cosmo again. Her high heeled-shoes, which Ryan hadn't noticed when he first came in, were under the bed. The blue mules had disappeared, Summer performing her usual wardrobe magic.

"Shouldn't you be studying?" Ryan said, seating himself at the foot of the bed.

"Can't bear another minute of it. Did the water quit on you again?" Summer said, frowning at his slick, wet hair.

"Yeah," he said. He picked up a foot. The toes were peach, too. "Did you know your feet, hands and lips all match?"

She favored him with a half-power version of her "You're no rocket scientist" look.

"You need to talk to the landlord," she said. "You pay your rent in full, on time, every month and have for more than a year. He owes you working utilities. If he can't get things fixed, maybe you need to find a nicer place."

Ryan put his thumbs in the arch of Summer's foot and began rubbing. He didn't tell her he was lucky to have this crummy room within walking distance of at least one of his jobs. If his pickup gave out, at least he could still get to work at Nina's.

"Atwood, are you listening to me?" she demanded.

"Yes, Summer," he said, moving his hands to just below her toes, stretching them out.

"Are you going to talk to him, or should I give him the benefit of a rage blackout?"

Ryan kept his eyes on her cute peach toes and his mind on rubbing her feet. They were so soft and she abused them terribly.

"You shouldn't wear such high heels," he said. "It's too hard on your feet."

"Atwood!" she said.

He picked up the other foot and looked into her face.

"Summer," he said quietly, letting his tone tell her the conversation was over.

It was an ongoing quarrel. He couldn't move and he couldn't afford to piss off his landlord. Summer couldn't even visualize a world where she couldn't piss off whom she pleased when she pleased and how she pleased. It was one of the thousands of differences between them.

"Do I smell like strawberries now?" he said as a peace offering.

"You know I'm only letting you change the subject because I'm hungry," she said after a pause.

"I stopped at the diner on the way here, but I could make you a grilled cheese on the hot plate," Ryan said. He didn't add that Seth had eaten Ryan's supper allowance and Ryan wouldn't be eating again until breakfast.

"What did you have?" Summer said, casually.

"The usual," he said, just as casually. Coffee was his usual when he was out of money.

"Well, I don't want a grilled cheese," she said.

"I could make mac and cheese in the hot pot," Ryan said. "Or I have the stuff for a peanut butter sandwich."

"No and no," she said. "You're always feeding me. And I want some vegetables. Let's get dressed and I'll take you somewhere nice. Maybe the Lighthouse."

"If you want to go somewhere nice, you could call one of your friends," Ryan suggested, reluctantly. "I have some things to do here."

He hated to lose half of his evening with her, but they couldn't be seen together in public, and he couldn't pay anyway. It would be better if she went with someone else.

"No," she said, mulishly. "I want to spend time with you, and I don't want to think of you sitting here alone in the dark."

"We could go back to the diner." His tab wouldn't be due for a few more weeks. He could scrape together the money to pay for an extra meal by then. And no one at the diner would be calling up her father to let him know about his daughter's tawdry affair with the hired help. People at the diner minded their own business.

"No," Summer said. "You'd end up paying again, and this is my treat."

He flipped his eyes up from her feet. He had the uneasy feeling she knew about the money situation.

"You don't let me do much for you," she said softly, meeting his eyes. She rolled onto her knees and reached out to touch his face. "Let me take you out tonight to a quiet place where you don't have to cook. It's a meal, not an engagement."

He looked into her eyes for a minute more, testing them and her intentions, before agreeing.

"OK," he said, "but it can't be fancy. Or where anyone would know us and ..."

"Get dressed," she interrupted happily. She jumped off the bed and ran into the bathroom for a little pre-prandial primping.

Ryan grabbed clean pants and a shirt and shrugged them on.He hoped he wouldn't have to spend the next day remembering them as the clothes he had been wearing when Summer dumped him.

He had read in one of the magazines Summer left at the room that the best way to break up with a man was to tell him in a public place so he couldn't make a scene. Not that he would make a scene no matter what she decided. Summer knew that. But she liked to do what the magazines said.

He would know for sure if she suggested taking separate vehicles. He wondered whether his pickup had enough gas in it to make it to the restaurant. Whether the five bucks in his pocket would need to go for gas or for the tip, and if he had to choose, whether Summer would understand that he had to have gas to get to work, even to a job that he likely wouldn't have the next day anyway.

"I'll drive," she said,coming out of the bathroom in a cloud of perfume.

He smiled. "Whatever you say, Summer," he said.

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AN/I know Summer's dad isn't a construction guy on the show, but by the time that fact was introduced, the first draft of this fic was 90 percent complete. I hope it doesn't spoil it too much for anyone./Sister Rose


	4. Part Four

"Out of Season"

By Sister Rose

Part Four

Rated: R

Disclaimer: The character of "The O.C." are the the property of Fox, and no infringement on those rights are intended in this fictional work."

AN: Special thanks to Dorabelle for her help with this part of the story.

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When the alarm went off at 4 a.m., Ryan Atwood groaned and wished desperately for a little more sleep.

Summer hadn't left until midnight. When they got back from the restaurant, she had given him one more chance to prove himself in bed. She had looked happy when she left. Ryan hadn't told her that he had agreed to work an early shift at the diner before going to work at the construction site.

When he left Nina's the day before, Joyce had told him she was short-handed. He had warned her he could only stay until 7 o'clock, but she said even that little bit would help.

Ryan rolled out of the bed and went to wash his face, promising himself that the first thing he would do at the diner was make coffee and that the very first cup would be his, all his.

Three and a half hours later, Ryan was listening to the comic stylings of Josh, carpenter and self-proclaimed witty guy.

"What happened to that sweet, sweet smell you wear out here every day?" Josh demanded. "Instead of strawberry cologne you said to yourself, Hey, for a change I'll go for the grease-scented bottle?' "

"Maybe I have a secret life," Ryan said.

"And maybe when you got up today, you heard, Baby, make me some bacon this morning if you want any lovin' tonight."

"Maybe so," Ryan agreed. "Then she said Josh won't do me right, so I need you to take care of my business when you're finished with the bacon business.'"

"Oh, ho," Josh said. "Hey, everybody, did you know Atwood's funny now?"

There was muffled laughter up and down the group as Mr. Roberts came out of the trailer to distribute the day's assignments.

Ryan was busy enough during the day that he had little time to brood about Summer. He spent the time worrying about his job instead. Finally, the call he had been dreading came.

"Hey, Atwood," Mr. Roberts yelled as Ryan lumbered past with a wheelbarrow. "Get your ass in here." Mr. Roberts disappeared back into the trailer.

Ryan dropped the barrow handles and straightened, stretching his back and taking the moment to look around the site for the last time. He had liked working here. Maybe Joyce would give him some extra shifts at the diner while he looked for another job. Maybe he should just embrace his future as a short-order cook and give up on construction.

He climbed the steps to the trailer and knocked on the door. At the muffled "come in," Ryan took off his hard hat and entered.

Mr. Roberts was on the phone, and he held up a finger to Ryan, signaling him to wait.

As if he had a choice, Ryan thought. But he controlled his rising anger. Mr. Roberts was a businessman who needed business. It wasn't his fault he had to fire Ryan. It wasn't anybody's fault, or if it was, it was Ryan's. He should have known the job was too good to last.

Dust flecks danced in the sunlight coming through the dirty window.The seconds ticked by painfully as Ryan waited. He planned to say "Yes, sir," and nothing else when it happened. Maybe he could still get a good reference.

Mr. Roberts finally hung up the black telephone and turned to Ryan.

"So, Atwood," he said. "I have a personal problem that you can help me with."

"Yes, sir," Ryan said, watching his fingers tighten around the straps of his hard hat and mentally bracing for the rest of it.

"I know it's not your job," Mr. Roberts said, "but my daughter needs a driver for today."

Ryan looked from his hard hat to Mr. Roberts and back to his hard hat again. He hoped for more explanation, but he thought it sounded as if he still had a job.

"My daughter's car has broken down," Mr. Roberts said. "I can't leave this afternoon. She's taking a taxi here. I need someone to go with her, help her haul the car to the mechanic and take her for a rental. Take care of her. If I asked any of these other clowns to do it, they would be screaming bloody murder. I figured you wouldn't mind."

"No, sir," Ryan said.

"Take the equipment mover," Mr. Roberts said, passing the keys to him.

The door rattled before flying open.

"Hi, Daddy," Summer said, banging into the trailer with a scowl on her pretty face, dark hair swinging freely behind her. "This has been the suckiest day ever, and I don't have cash for the cab."

"I'll take care of it," Mr. Roberts said, digging for his wallet and tromping down the metal steps.

Ryan kept his eyes down.

"Atwood?" Summer said. "What's going on?"

Ryan snuck a glance at her, but Mr. Roberts came clattering back into the room before he could answer.

"Summer, have you met Atwood?" Mr. Roberts said. "Atwood, my daughter."

"Miss Roberts," Ryan said. Her dark eyebrows tightened.

"Atwood is going to be your driver," Mr. Roberts said.

"I thought you were going to take care of me, Daddy," Summer said as the phone rang.

"Atwood will handle everything. Just tell him what you need," Mr. Roberts said, putting phone to ear and instantly -- it was obvious -- forgetting their presence as the cord tethered him to his desk.

Summer looked ready to cry, which Ryan knew from hard experience meant she was angry.

"Well," she said harshly. "Are you ready, Atwood?"

"I'll get the truck."

He pulled up to the trailer steps where Summer was waiting, rubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands. A slight breeze ruffled her mini skirt. He got out and went around to open the door for her, but she pushed past his helping hand, climbed in and crossed her arms over her seat belt. Ryan didn't think the posture was a happy one.

"Where are we going?" he said quietly, refastening his own seat belt.

"To the freeway," she said. Except for directions, she didn't speak until they reached her car.

It was easy to spot. Bright red convertibles with the top down, the hood up and the engine smoking weren't thick on the ground, even in Newport.

Ryan pulled over in front of the abandoned vehicle, maneuvering the truck through the California traffic.

"Do you want me to have a look at the engine or just load it up?" he said.

"Whatever."

Ryan took that as permission to exit the truck. He left Summer sitting there, arms still crossed, face still stormy.

He waved away smoke and peered into the depths of the convertible. Six cylinders, overdrive, latest computer technology. He traced some circuits and poked through a nest of multicolored wires. Hmm. He didn't have a clue what was wrong.

Ryan wriggled under the convertible on his back, scraping across the asphalt to hook chains to chassis, hearing the speeding cars go by at uncomfortably close range.

When the car was loaded and locked in place, Ryan got back in the truck. The air inside had smelled like spring flowers -- Summer. His musky sweat hit the air conditioning and filled the cab. He looked at Summer's cloudy face. He bit his lip and looked out the driver's side window in indecision. Finally, he spoke.

"I'm sorry he couldn't come," Ryan said.

The storm broke.

"He can't ever do it himself," Summer raged. "Not ever. He could if he wanted, but he doesn't. He's a pig and I hate him. I can't believe he's my father. If it had been the stepmonster, he would have been out here fast enough, cooing over what a terrible day she had and telling her not to worry her pretty little head. He would have taken care of all of it himself and then taken her out to a really nice restaurant to get her mind off it. But me ... He didn't even ask me how I am. He would rather hand me off to some flunky than take an hour out of his precious day to do anything for me."

Ryan waited patiently as Summer yelled. He had heard most of it before, though the "some flunky" part was new. He tried not to wince.

"And then ... Oh, wait, I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean it that way."

"It's OK," Ryan said.He wouldn't get his feelings hurt just because Summer was telling the truth. "Do you have a mechanic in mind?"

"Aren't you going to tell me I'm misunderstanding Daddy and I shouldn't be so hard on him?"

"Summer," Ryan began slowly, reluctantly. This was going to be hard. Ryan might be Summer's occasional sex partner, but her father was her father.

"No, it's all right," Summer said, sounding defeated. "I know you won't say anything bad about Daddy. I usually like that. I just wanted someone to be on my side today."

"You're his daughter and will always be special to him. If he didn't have flunkies like me, he would have taken care of you," Ryan said carefully. "But I know he really is busy. He had a long meeting with Mrs. Cohen yesterday."

"Of the Newport Group?" Summer said.

Ryan nodded.

"Did you hear anything about how they're planning to finance that new development?" she said.

"I didn't hear anything, Summer," he said. "I'm sorry."

He was especially sorry he had started the conversation. It was wandering into the territory he and Summer didn't discuss: his job; her father; the effect a single word from her could have on his ability to eat regularly and pay bills.

Ryan had known all along that for Summer he was just a college fling with the hired help. He understood that and didn't try to cross the line into boyfriend land. He didn't ask questions or demand answers or even expect her to show up regularly.

They both got what they needed: He still had a job; and she had steady sex with someone her father wouldn't approve of her seeing.

Ryan hadn't expected that he would like her or that he would be so reluctant for her to let him go.

"Where's your mechanic?" Ryan said.

They deposited Summer's convertible with a scowling bearded man in greasy pants who wiped his hands on an oil-soaked red rag and muttered grimly about blown rods and loose rings in a pretty obvious attempt to intimidate a woman who didn't know anything about cars. Ryan leaned against the equipment mover and watched the conversation.When Summer went to the restroom, Ryan pulled the guy aside.

"Look, man," Ryan began. "I know you're just trying to make a little money, but this is not the way to do it. That's Mike Roberts' daughter, you know, of Mike Roberts Construction? If her dad thinks you tried to overcharge his precious baby girl, there will be hell to pay. Know what I mean?"

The mechanic did, and the auto repair estimate started dropping back into the reasonable range.

Business concluded, Ryan and Summer got back in the truck.

"Let's get a drink," Summer said, eyeing the bar across the street.

Ryan paused. He looked at Summer underneath hooded eyes. He kept his voice level.

"The car place won't let you have a rental if they think you've been drinking," he said.

She looked at him with lower lip pooching out. He thought that meant she was feeling pouty instead of angry. She had washed her face and reapplied her makeup in the bathroom.She looked as if she felt better. Ryan hoped so.

"We could go for just one drink," Summer said, "then do some shopping and then go get a car before you have to go back to work."

"I'm ..." he bit off the sentence -- I'm at work right now -- before it could escape. "I'm not very good at shopping. Unless you want to pick out a hammer."

"No," Summer said sadly. "That would make you an accomplice."

They sat in the silence for a couple of minutes, air conditioner rattling out a cold breeze. Summer finally sighed.

"Oh, all right," she said. "Take me to Budget."

Ryan put the truck in gear.

"I can't believe he introduced us. He doesn't even remember what happened last year," she said.

Ryan put the truck back in neutral and pulled the parking brake.There were so many things he could say, and not one of them seemed like the right thing.

"I'm sorry," he said, helplessly, fruitlessly. What good was he when he couldn't even make her feel better?

"It's not your fault, Atwood," Summer said. "Will you be home tonight?"

"I'm working a shift at the diner," he said.

"Can I see you after?"

He finally turned to look at her, her finely shaped eyebrows knotted together, peach lips tightly pressed. He wanted to say, "Come when you want and stay forever."

He didn't.

"Sure."

"Would you do me a favor?"

"Sure."

"Don't call me Miss Roberts' again," she said, looking out her window.

"It's just in front of your dad."

"No, it's not," she said. "What did you tell the mechanic when I went to the bathroom?"

Ryan frowned at her. How did they get from "Miss Roberts" to the mechanic?

"I just said he should be more careful in his billing," Ryan said.

"No, you didn't," Summer said. "You threatened him with Daddy. Didn't you? You didn't say, Hey, buddy, quit messing with my girl.' You said, Quit messing with Mike Roberts' daughter.'"

Ryan thought for a minute. She was right.

"You're right, Summer," he said.

"You're not even going to argue?"

"You're right, Summer," he said again. "What else do you want me to say? I'll say it."

"How does it feel, knowing you don't even have the balls to stand up for me in public?" she said.

Ryan felt that one burn. He didn't answer for a minute. The minute ticked into two.

She was right, of course. Ryan had no power to protect Summer except by telling people she had a powerful father. Their relationship was just about sex. To Summer, he was the hired help, a loser who couldn't get his job done. So she was firing him. He had known this was coming. He had thought he was ready. Wrong again.

He wanted to ask Summer whether it was making her feel better to make him feel worse. He wanted to scream. He wanted to bang her head against the dashboard, or maybe his, and he wanted to have sex with her until neither of them could stand up.

Summer shifted uncomfortably on her side of the cab. She should be uncomfortable.She could have waited until he could walk away. Now he was stuck in this truck for the rest of the afternoon with her.

He couldn't believe he was wishing she had dumped him in the restaurant after all.

Ryan took his hands off the thin, oversized steering wheel. He unbuckled his seat belt and climbed down from the cab. He walked around the front, watching Summer all the way. He opened the door on her side, took her hand and pulled her out of the cab. She didn't say anything else, and he was glad. There was nothing else to say.

He pushed her against the side of the truck's cab and put his hands on either side of her head. He bent down and laid his lips on hers.

Only their lips touched. He just wanted one kiss.

The last kiss, he thought. He tried to make it perfect, something the rich girl might remember in years to come. He tried to memorize the sweet, soft texture of her peach lips with his own mouth.

His nose picked up the complex flowery mixture of expensive makeup, shampoo and moisturizer that had come to mean "Summer" to him.

The heat from the still-rumbling truck finally registered on his thick palms. He broke off the kiss, pulled Summer away from the cab and into his arms, then ran his hands down her back. Her tiny body always made him feel tall, strong and brave, three things he wasn't.

Ryan stroked Summer's warm, dark hair. He thought he would miss it most of all. He laid his head across hers and breathed it in, remembering the way it always ended up in his nose during sex, the silky feel of it draped across his body, the way it clung to the hairbrush when she let him brush it. Ryan clasped Summer tightly, squeezed even more tightly and with a last breath of her hair, unlocked his arms and let her go.

He opened the truck door and held out his hand to help her into the cab. She looked shaken as she took the hand and climbed inside.

Ryan gently closed the door and walked back to the driver's side. He fastened his seat belt.

"I'm sorry," he said. "You're right. You deserve better."

He released the parking brake and put the truck in gear. He didn't look at her. He didn't speak another word. Neither did she.

That night, Summer didn't show up at the diner.


	5. Part Five

"Out of Season"

Part Five

By Sister Rose

Disclaimer: The characters of "The O.C." belong to Fox, and no infringement is intended in this fictional work.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Nearly a week passed. Ryan Atwood still hadn't seen Summer. He had started using plain soap in the shower. He had almost quit looking up every time the bell over the door at Nina's rang. He had definitely quit raising his head every time a car drove into the construction site.

Ryan salvaged a cardboard box from Nina's, one that once held giant cans of peaches for Joyce's above-average peach cobbler.

He went through his room and gathered everything Summer had left. Ryan didn't really think Summer would come back for her things. She had left nothing irreplaceable at his room, not even him. But just in case, he filled the box. The things were hers.

He had hidden -- stolen really, though he had promised himself never to do that again -- exactly one souvenir: the Cosmo magazine with the cover model whose peach lips matched Summer's. He put it under his mattress.

Everything else went into the peaches box: a hairbrush that still had long, dark hair in it; a pair of sandals, sweat-stained and sandy from a trip to the beach; deodorant, toothbrush, lip gloss; movie ticket stubs; a notebook from a biology class; a pair of two-pound hand weights from the week Summer decided to get into shape; a pair of black satin underwear; a string of Mardi Gras beads from a charity event; a well-worn copy of "Madame Bovary" that Summer had read to him in bed; and about 10 magazines full of advice on shoes, makeup and men.

Ryan wasn't sure of the etiquette on returning gifts. He left the tiny refrigerator plugged and running, but he slowly emptied it of contents and didn't replace them. When -- if -- Summer came back, it could be unplugged and loaded into her car. He went to the thrift store and bought two used towels. He started using one for his bath mat and the other for his body.

The pink bath things he folded to join the rest of Summer's leftovers in the peaches box.

He put the cardboard box near the only window in the tiny room. There really wasn't any other place for it. At night, the parking lot lights outside the window blasted through the thin, gauzy curtains, and the box cast a much bigger shadow than it should have on the wall.

When he lay in the bed on his left side, he could see the shadow. When he lay on his right side, he could see the box.

When he lay on his back, all he could think of was how good it had felt to lay there with Summer's head on his shoulder, her body still trembling from the sex they had shared; and the way she giggled during the sex; and the way she always kissed the point of his shoulder afterward and said "thanks" softly in his ear; and the way she liked to jump his sweaty body the minute he walked in the door; and the way she drove him crazy with pillow talk about clothes and fashion and fancy parties.

Ryan had dedicated some time to his punching bag, wearing himself out nightly with the unthinking rhythm of the bag and his fists. But unthinking led to thinking, which led to his remembering the first time he showed Summer how to use the bag and position her feet and how her first blow landed her elbow in his eye and they had ended up giggling together on the floor and everybody at work the next week kept asking him how badly he lost the bar fight.

Not thinking about Summer was exhausting enough that Ryan wasn't getting much sleep.

At work things weren't going so well either.That morning as everyone gathered around the construction trailer, Josh taking a hand count of all those who got laid in the last week, Mr. Roberts stepped out, closely trailed by a string bean of a kid.

"This is Chip Saunders," Mr. Roberts said. "He's an engineering student at UCLA. He'll be interning here for the next eight weeks. Please help him out all you can."

Then he passed out assignments. Ryan got concrete duty, which he hated. Nasty stuff. The cement dust blew in his eyes and the semisolid goo always hardened in the seams of his pants and wouldn't come out. Ryan would need to find time each night to wash this pair of pants until the concrete pouring was over so he ruined only one pair.

Mr. Saunders was going to be working with the concrete crew. Terrific.

When introduced, Ryan responded politely, with a nod, "Mr. Saunders."

"Call me Chip," Mr. Saunders said.

"Yes, sir," Ryan said.

Mr. Saunders gave him a pointed stare and laughed. Ryan flushed and looked at the ground.

And didn't his co-workers have a good time giving him hell over that.

They wouldn't be calling a college kid "mister." They were older. They were experienced construction veterans, valuable on a work site.And they hadn't been in juvie, where Ryan had learned the fist-filled lesson that he should call everyone in authority "mister" or "sir." Or "ma'am."

Ryan wondered whether he should call Summer "ma'am" if he saw her again. She hated "Miss Roberts." But she was the boss' daughter. At some point her dad would take her into the family business. And then Ryan really would be working for her. Maybe she would be signing his paychecks. Maybe he should start practicing.

"Ma'am," he told his pickup's rear-view mirror during lunch. His mirror didn't look convinced. "Miss?" he tried. Again with the skepticism. He sighed. Maybe he should just go back to work.

He shook the last sandwich crumbs from his lunch sack and folded the brown bag neatly for reuse. He got out of his pickup and put his hard hat back on.He swallowed another gulp of water from his mustard-yellow jug.He batted at the cement dust on his clothes, coughing when too big a cloud arose. Great.

That's when he saw the car pull up beside his, skidding a little on the gravel. It was Seth's.

Ryan's stomach somersaulted. He regained control as Seth cut the ignition and stepped out. Ryan had thought he might run into Seth again, but somehow it was a surprise -- not a totally pleasant one -- to see him again. Ryan wondered what Seth wanted and hoped that he wouldn't need any of the condoms stashed in his pickup glove box.

Not that he couldn't give a good blowjob. He had practiced in juvie, after all. He knew exactly how much he owed Seth and his parents and if Seth wanted Ryan to pay up that way, Ryan was prepared.

But he didn't want to spoil his memory of the few days that had been the best time of his life and he hoped Seth wouldn't ask.

"Hey," Seth said.

"Hey," Ryan said, cautiously.

"I was stopping by to see whether you would take me up on the coffee shop offer," Seth said.

"Sure," Ryan said.

"Tonight?"

"Sure," Ryan said.

"You know," Seth said, "this conversation sounds a lot like the last one we had, which is fine if you like reruns.Me, I like original programming. So I'm going to fast-forward right to the part where you won't get in my car in your work clothes and then to the part where you tell me you really aren't dressed for anywhere nice and then to the part where we agree to meet back at Nina's."

Ryan looked at Seth. That was just weird.

"So," Seth said. "Which is it going to be, Nina's or Nina's again?"

"I like Nina's," Ryan said.

"I thought you would," Seth said. "So I'll see you there at 6, OK?"

"I may be a little late," Ryan said, shaking his shirt out as evidence. "Concrete is finished when it's finished."

Seth wrinkled his nose. "I'll just get started on my memoirs while I wait," he said.

Ryan watched Seth drive away, dust puffing up from under the wheels.

That was just weird.


	6. Part Six

"Out of Season"

Part Six

By Sister Rose

Disclaimer: The characters of "The O.C." are owned by Fox, and no infringement is intended in this fictional work.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

Ryan Atwood glanced around the diner, the smell of short-order grease filling it. The booths around him were full of truckers and construction workers. Full portions at reasonable prices drew a heavy-labor crowd that tended to tip well for good service.

The laborers also tipped well for generous bosoms flaunted in the line of duty, and the two waitresses were wearing blouses cut as low and tight as the law would allow for nonsex-industry workers, the better to display their tip-catchers.

A muffled country love song scratched through the decrepit P.A. system.

In the middle of all that was Seth. He had ordered a plate of "breakfast meats" -- his phrase -- and was eating sausage patties and bacon strips with lip-smacking enjoyment. His plain clothes quietly spoke money, in spite of Seth's dining habits, and Ryan couldn't exactly figure out how they did it. Summer's clothes did, too....and he wasn't going to go down the garden path of thinking about Summer right now.

It was just weird. Ryan couldn't figure out what Seth wanted from him. He hadn't made a pass -- hadn't even brought up favors owed or in any other casual way mentioned what Ryan could do for him.

Ryan couldn't help thinking that Seth appeared determined to be his friend. Seth didn't even seem to care that he and Ryan had nothing in common or that he had to do most of the talking.

He had jabbered on about the meaning of a novel he was reading for class and how it compared to the anime tradition and whether he should bring that up in the paper he was writing, all the while stuffing in his "breakfast meats."

Ryan had absolutely no opinion to share, having no experience with novels or with anime or with writing papers for English classes.

He wrapped both hands around his warm white ceramic coffee cup, listening, and finally interjected one comment.

"But what does the professor want?" he said.

"I don't know," Seth said, as if it had never occurred to him to wonder. Ryan watched Seth roll the idea around his head, tasting it.

"What does he want? He's responded indifferently to sarcastic remarks in class and my last paper was a C, which was so wrong, it was obviously B work, not my best but then again it came right after a comics convention, so I couldn't be expected to concentrate on Madame Bovary' when I had just scored a mint-condition first-edition Hellboy.' But he does have a katana on his office wall -- I saw it when I went to talk to him about the grade -- so maybe he would have an appreciation for the Japanese culture and would like a little comparative activity. Yes, that could all work out well, assuming I do a superlative job and not a half-assed one like the last paper. You're very wise, Ryan."

Ryan didn't feel wise. He felt sandblasted with words, their meaning swirling past him. He tried his coffee, mentally preparing for what he needed to say, hoping it wouldn't be awkward and knowing it would be. If Seth wanted to be friends -- and Ryan still wasn't sure about that -- Ryan had to ask an uncomfortable question.

"I wanted to know," he started. Seth's brown eyes were locked on Ryan's face. Except for Summer, no one looked into Ryan's eyes. He didn't like it from anyone but Summer. It made him feel naked. He couldn't talk to Seth while he felt naked.

Ryan dropped his eyes back to his coffee cup, still enveloped in his rough hands.

"Yes?" Seth said.

"Did, um," Ryan started again. "You had named your boat for a different girl. Did you ever hook up with her?"

"Summer?" Seth said in surprise. "No, I met Anna and we dated and I kind of forgot about Summer. Well, not really, because you never forget your first crush, but I quit making a fool of myself chasing her."

That sentiment Ryan could appreciate. Seth wasn't the last guy to make a fool of himself over Summer, even if he had been the first.

"How did you remember Summer?" Seth said.

"When you said you changed the name of your boat, I started trying to remember what the old one was."

"Summer Breeze."

"But you're over her, right?"

"Definitely. What's up with all the questions?"

Ryan had taken this conversation as far as he cared to. Any more and he would be confessing to banging the boss' daughter, not something he really wanted the other boss' son to know and not something he wanted to think about when he wasn't going to be banging her any more anyway. It was enough that he knew he hadn't been poaching on Seth's territory when he had been with Summer.

"Sorry," Ryan said. "Want some cobbler? Apple today."

The cafe was busy, so Ryan waved off their waitress and dished up a large bowl for Seth, topping it with ice cream.

"So," Seth said as Ryan brought the bowl back. "This looks tasty."

Ryan smiled as Seth picked up a spoon and dug in, hair flopping into his eyes as enthusiastically as the spoon was flying into the bowl.

"It's terrific," Seth finally mumbled around an especially large bite. "What's it called again?"

"Apple cobbler," Ryan said with surprise.

"Mom's never ordered this before," Seth said.

"It's pretty easy to make," Ryan said.

"Oh, we don't cook," Seth said. "We order. And if it's easy, probably the restaurants we order from refuse to make it. That's what Dad would say anyway."

Ryan didn't know what to say to that, so he took refuge in saying nothing. Seth scooped up more cobbler and ate it thoughtfully.

"How long has it been since you've seen my dad?" Seth said.

Ryan still didn't know what to say, but he couldn't answer a direct question with silence.

"Um, I guess when he recommended me for my job," Ryan said.

"Your job here?"

"No, my construction job," Ryan said. "I guess your dad knew Mr. Roberts through your mother's work?"

"Probably," Seth said. "Plus, everybody in Newport knows everybody else and all their business. My parents' divorce was the talk of the town for about a month, then Luke's dad came out of the closet. I've kinda liked old Luke ever since, just because he took the focus off me. Yes, you wouldn't think I would hate being in the spotlight, but I did."

Seth's voice was full of a bitterness that Ryan didn't recognize from his memories of Seth as a 16-year-old. Well, Ryan was harder than he had been then. It made sense that Seth would be, too.

"And everyone in Newport has to pick sides," Seth went on. "So everyone picked my mom's side because my granddad owns everything and I guess everyone in Newport."

"Isn't that good?" Ryan said.

"Not when it means my dad was forced out of his job and couldn't find a new one," Seth said. "No one would hire him. You can't cross the Newport Group and hope to stay in Newport, even if your son still lives here."

"How long has it been since you've seen him?" Ryan said.

"Let's just say you've probably seen him since I have," Seth said. "And the last time he called he was so drunk that I couldn't understand him."

"I'm sorry," Ryan said. He wondered whether he should tell Seth he had a pretty good idea where Seth could find his dad. It didn't sound like the father and son would have much to talk about if he did.

"That's OK," Seth said. "I'm just happy to be able to talk about him. I can't say any of this to anybody else."

As he scraped the last bit of cobbler and ice cream from the bowl's glazed ceramic sides, Seth said, "So. I've got to run myself, this week."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to keep you," Ryan said hurriedly. He had gotten too comfortable. He felt his face get hot. Just because he had been dumped and had no particular place to go this evening didn't mean Seth wanted to talk to him all night.

"You didn't," Seth said, frowning slightly. "I did, but I have to meet Anna at the library."

Seth started walking toward the register where Joyce was waiting expectantly.

"I can get it," Ryan said.

"My turn," Seth said. "You can have a turn next week. Hey, wait a second. It occurs to me that you don't have my phone number."

Seth turned back to the table, grabbed a napkin and scribbled his number hastily, passing it to Ryan.

"Call anytime," Seth said.

"Thanks," Ryan said, befuddled.

He sat back in the booth, staring at the napkin. Seth had given Ryan his phone number. Did he actually want Ryan to call him? Maybe Ryan was supposed to call to arrange payback for that terrific weekend.

But Seth had said "next week." Was Seth planning on coffee again? Or was he waiting until then to demand payback? Ryan didn't know. He stood and crammed the napkin in his pocket. He waved to Joyce and left the diner, lost in the questions, his feet making their own way toward his pickup.

He glanced up and slowed. He would have stopped, but his feet had other ideas and their momentum took him to his headlights. He couldn't look away.

Summer perched on the rusting hood of his white pickup.


	7. Part Seven

"Out of Season"

Part Seven

By Sister Rose

Disclaimer: The characters of "The O.C." are owned by Fox, and no infringement is intended in this work of fiction.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A bright red scarf pulled Summer's hair back. It matched the bright red top she had on, over the red-and-white polka-dotted mini skirt. Her tanned shoulders were showing and her tanned legs were crossed. If she uncrossed them carelessly, every trucker with a window seat was going to get an unforgettable view.

"It took you long enough, Atwood," she said.

Ryan Atwood's mouth was dry. He moved his tongue and opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

"Hey," he finally blurted.

She didn't seem to notice his lack of glibness. Clever speech had never been one of his hallmarks anyway.

"Come on, let's go," Summer said.

"Where?" he said.

Fired failure or not, he would still go anywhere she said anytime she said and do anything she said while he was there. He tried to convince himself that he would do it because he wanted to keep his job, not because he was a pathetic, whipped loser.

He thought about it for an instant more and decided he didn't care. He was on the Summer train for as long as she wanted him to ride.

"Your place," she said.

He reached up, placed his hands under her arms and gently lifted her to the ground, steadying her until he was sure she could actually walk in those impossible platform shoes.

He watched her climb into her red convertible and waited until she had it started and and was gunning out of the parking lot before he got into his pickup.

With that small head start -- and a heavy foot on the accelerator -- Summer unlocked the door and was inside Ryan's room before he had his pickup parked.

"Have you been cleaning?" she turned to demand as he walked in the door. She had been looking at the windows, which were, in fact, spotless inside and out. A man had to do something when he couldn't sleep. There was no more grime in the corners of the bathroom, either, and it smelled like Lysol, though he didn't think she'd looked that far.

Ryan shrugged.

"And what's this?" she said, kicking one platformed foot toward the peaches box.

"Your things," he said.

"My things?" she said. She narrowed her eyes suspiciously and knelt to paw through the box, flipping into disarray his careful arrangement of her possessions.

"While I was cleaning," he said lamely. He hadn't expected to need to explain.

"There's nothing in the fridge," she said. "My things are in a box and ..... your towels are, too." She had discovered the neatly folded piles of pink.

"Your towels," he said quietly.

She stood and turned to face him, hands on her hips. He closed the door behind them for the illusion of privacy.

"You thought I wasn't coming back," she stated flatly. "Even though I'm here every Thursday. Because I didn't come Friday night after my car broke down when I said I would."

Ryan said nothing, but his jaw tightened and he crossed his arms.

"Ryan," she said. The unfamiliar sound of her voice saying his first name pulled his eyes.

"I just put your things in a box," Ryan said. "That's all."

"No, Ryan," Summer said. "That won't cut it."

His heart fell and he turned away slightly.

"This time you have to accept my apology."

Ryan looked at her, unable to really understand what she was saying. Her apology? She was the boss. It was his place to apologize.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I was rude and hateful and then after you kissed me when I had been such a bitch, I was embarrassed. That's why I didn't come see you. You've been thinking all week that we were through and I'm so, so sorry. I should have guessed that's what you were thinking."

Tears started leaking from the edges of Ryan's eyes, and he shook his head, trying to make them stop. He bit his lip. Ryan hadn't cried in years and he wasn't about to start up again now.

Outside of Thursdays, his time with Summer had always been irregular. He should have known something had come up that kept her. He shouldn't have jumped to a conclusion.

"It's not your fault, Summer," he said huskily. "I'm too stupid to figure things out."

"You're not stupid," she shrieked. "I'm a bitch, OK? I'm sorry, sorry, sorry. Please forgive me and stop talking like it's your fault. It makes me so mad when you do that. Not everything in the world is your fault. Sometimes it's mine."

She stamped a foot, almost kicking off a platform shoe. Tears were leaking down her face, too. Ryan reached out a hand to wipe away her tears, then noticed the cement dust covering his arms, underneath the fine blond hair. He couldn't touch her when he was that dirty. Then he saw the cement dust stains on her blouse where he had picked her up in the parking lot. That delicate blouse probably cost two days' pay, and he had ruined it in one thoughtless act. He crossed his arms again and put his hands in his armpits.

"Summer," he said softly. "Please stop crying."

"I know you'll forgive me no matter what stupid thing I do, and I don't deserve it, but I want you to forgive me anyway," she said, tears still dripping down her face.

He tried to make sense of that statement, but his head was too fuzzy. Lack of sleep during the past week was catching up with him.

"I need a shower so I don't get this dust anywhere else," he said, trying not to look at the places where he had stained her top. "And I need to clear my head. But I don't want to leave you crying."

"I'll stop," she promised blearily. "As soon as you say you forgive me."

"Forget about it, Summer."

"Say it!"

He looked at her. He had never said those words before and they tasted funny coming out of his mouth.

"I forgive you."

"Thank you," she said. "Now give me your pants."

"Please, Summer, I really need to shower first."

"No, not that," she said. "I'll wash them while you're in the shower."

That threat sobered him quickly.

"No, you don't have to do that," he said, a little too fast. "You shouldn't be washing my clothes. It will only be a minute and I'll be out of the shower."

"Take them off, Atwood," she said. "I know you hate concrete dust in your clothes. I want to wash them for you."

He could see she meant it and her feelings would be hurt if he didn't give them up. Well, surely his next paycheck could stretch to include a pair of secondhand work pants. He walked to the drawer where he kept his garbage bags and pulled one out. He pulled out his wallet and a wrinkled napkin and put them on his dresser. He shucked his pants and stuffed them in the bag, following them with the dusty shirt, undershirt and socks.

The instant he took his clothes off, he could feel the grit all over his skin, which prickled in the cold of his room.

He handed Summer the bag with trepidation.

"The rest of the laundry, too, Atwood," Summer said. "And your shorts. And give up the soap. Cold water, right? I can do this. It won't be like last time."

"Once through cold water without soap to get rid of the dust, then once through warm water with soap to get them clean. I don't want the rest of my things to get concrete dust on them," Ryan said. At her accusing glare, he added, "Really, I'll do them later."

The plastic garbage bag in his closet was almost full. He could afford to let her ruin one set of clothes, but not everything.

He didn't think his laundry instructions would be remembered as long as it would take Summer to walk to the one washer in the complex.

But there was a decent chance the machine would be full. It usually was this time of day. If she had to wait and he took a really fast shower, he could be with her at the washer in time to keep her from shrinking his clothes.

Ryan scooped up a cup of blue-grained powdered soap from the box in his closet and passed it to Summer. He kept a coffee can for change under his bed. He dug in it for a handful of quarters and passed those over, too, before shedding his shorts.

"You have to use your pink towels," Summer said, leaving with the black plastic bag over her shoulder.

Ryan smiled as he padded naked toward the cardboard peaches box and found the pink towels. He needed to hurry.


	8. Part Eight

"Out of Season"

Part Eight

Disclaimer: The characters of "The O.C." belong to Fox and no infringement is intended in this fictional work.

AN: This is a bonus section, written for spqr/dorabelle, who requested laundry hijinks. Not sure whether this is what she had in mind, but this part is for her.

------------------------------------------------------------------

Ryan Atwood's hair was still wet as he trudged barefooted past the vending machines toward the laundry room. The stretched-out layout of the apartment complex revealed its origin as a cheap motel. Now it was a cheap pay-by-the-week rooming facility with just one washing machine and one dryer.

When he entered the laundry room, Summer was leaning over the washing machine, watching the water fill. She jumped and whirled around as he spoke, hastily dumping her scoop of soap.

"Hey," he said. "How's it going?"

"Just starting the second time through," Summer said. "You startled me."

"Sorry," he said, slinging his garbage bag of dirty clothes onto the floor beside the only chair in the stuffy room.

He stuck out his hand.

"Hungry?"

She looked at his offering suspiciously.

"What is it?" she said.

"Peanut butter sandwich," he said. "No hemlock."

She gave him a "look who's funny now" glare, took the sandwich and waited for him to sit on the hard orange plastic chair. As soon as he did, she plopped herself across his lap. He caught her before her momentum took her to the floor, wrapping one arm around her waist and the other across her legs. She giggled.

"Thanks," she said, taking a bite of peanut butter sandwich, one arm draped around Ryan's neck, as they listened to the rhythm of the washing machine starting its wash cycle. Humidity filled the air, plus the faint smell of chlorine bleach. A few used dryer sheets littered the floor.

Ryan could still smell a little concrete dust, too, that had to have been coming from Summer's blouse.

He opened his mouth to apologize just as Summer turned the sandwich toward his mouth and stuffed it in.

"Your turn," she said.

He bit obediently and chewed.

She watched him studiously.

"Have you been eating enough?" she said. "You look thinner. You should take two bites."

He scowled at her but took another bite. One soft peach hand reached up to muss his still-wet hair. A few cold droplets flicked onto his shoulders.

"You should grow it out," Summer said.

Mouth still full of peanut butter, Ryan didn't bother to answer. His hair length was a familiar theme, and she didn't need him to sing the chorus again.

"Hey," she said, thwacking him in the stomach when he didn't respond. "You're supposed to say, It won't fit under my hard hat.'"

Ryan swallowed.

"If you know what I'm going to say, then I don't need to say it," he said. "Besides, if I said that, you would say, But it would look so hot.'"

She laughed at his falsetto imitation of her voice.

"And then you would say, I don't need long hair to look hot,'" Summer growled in her best bass voice —- which wasn't very bass.

"That's right," Ryan agreed, "so this is a talk we don't need to have."

"But it's fun every time," Summer argued, taking another bite of their sandwich. "And you would look hot with longer hair."

Ryan looked at Summer, with her red scarf and red top and dark hair and dark eyes, sitting so close to him. She glowed with possibility, with youth and bright promise. He reached up to pull off her scarf, letting her hair loose, and kissed her on the jawline. He swept his hand underneath her dark locks, so soft and silky. His other hand smoothed up and down her soft, olive thigh to the edge of her tiny polka-dotted skirt. He didn't let his hand go further.

He lifted it instead to Summer's face, tracing one finger around her eye sockets, down her nose and to her chin.

"No, you look hot with long hair," Ryan said. "You look hot all the time."

She snuggled her head into the curve of his shoulder.

"So do you," she said. "Short hair, long hair, you're always hot. Especially with those cute bare feet."

She kissed his neck then sat back up to take another bite of peanut butter sandwich.

Ryan held Summer and thought about his life before her. He didn't tell her his particular fears about long hair. Summer's world didn't need to be tainted with the knowledge of how long hair could be used as a convenient handle for a bad-ass juvie hall resident who wanted sexual attention. She didn't need to know. He didn't want to tell. Those were lost years, as far as he was concerned. He wondered whether Trey felt the same way.

"Earth to Atwood. Where did you go?" Summer said, waving the sandwich in front of Ryan's nose. "You were with me, telling me I'm hot, and then your face went blank, like you were remembering something bad."

"I did?" Ryan said.

"You did," Summer said. "Anything you can tell me?"

Ryan grabbed the hand Summer was waving in front of him and took a bite of their sandwich. He thought about it as he ate. She had been hinting lately that she wouldn't mind hearing more about his life. His best efforts to thwart her wouldn't last much longer in the face of her persistence.

"Just thinking about my brother," he said.

"I didn't know you had a brother," she said. "Older or younger?"

"Older," Ryan said.

When he said nothing else, she prodded him in the chest.

"Well," she said, impatiently. "What else? Tell me all about him. What's his name? Where does he live? Does he think his brother would be hotter with longer hair?"

"His name is Trey, he lives in prison, and he doesn't care about my hair as long as I visit once a month," Ryan said, testing her.

The sandwich dropped to the floor, half-eaten. Summer squiggled around on Ryan's lap and stared into his eyes.

"Seriously?" she said. "What made you think about him?"

Ryan pushed Summer gently onto her feet on the cement floor. He got up and walked across to lean on the washing machine, feeling its rumble under his hands. He couldn't face her.

"When I was 16," Ryan started.

He heard movement behind him and peeked. Summer was watching him, her eyes fixed on his back. He shot his eyes back to the wall above the washer with its bulletin board of notices for child care, church services and used cars for sale. He couldn't focus on any of them, and he clenched his jaw. He sucked in a deep breath and blew it out.

"When I was 16," Ryan began again, "Trey took me out to teach me how to steal cars."

He stopped to breathe.

"We got caught."

Another pause for breath. It was too late to stop. He went on.

"It wasn't Trey's first time. He'll be out in about three years. I was just thinking about how long it has been since he's seen a woman even half as beautiful as you."

Ryan closed his eyes, waiting for Summer's decision. He had been thinking about her and a car thief in the same thought. She wouldn't like that.

He flinched as Summer walked up behind him, then he felt her arms go around his waist. She pressed her body against his.

"What about you?" she said.

"What about me?" he said.

"Is that when you went to prison, too?" she said.

Ryan twisted in Summer's arms, shocked. He had never told her anything about juvie. He tried not to talk about himself at all.

"How?" he said, without enough breath to say anything else.

"Nobody told," she said, leaning her head against his chest. "I guessed."

"I got out of juvie when I turned 18," Ryan said. "I don't like to talk about it."

"I know," Summer said simply. She lifted her face to Ryan's. "It's all right."

She put her head back on his chest. Ryan wondered whether she could hear his heart racing, almost in time with the wash cycle. He had been afraid to tell her, and she had known the truth all along. He tentatively put his arms around her and breathed in the Summer smell and the warmth of her body. Her flower perfume mixed with the scent of used dryer sheets and other people's dirty clothes.

"When I was 16," Summer said quietly, her words ruffling into Ryan's T-shirt, "my best friend overdosed and died. My dad got married for the fourth time, two months later. I celebrated Daddy's honeymoon by getting drunk off my ass on champagne and losing my virginity to the waiter who kept bringing me drinks."

Ryan listened. The thrum of the washing machine was the only sound in the tiny room. That and Summer's soft voice.

"A month later," Summer said, "I missed a period and had to make a visit to a clinic for a little procedure."

She took her own turn to pause. Ryan felt her shoulders move up and down as if she were gathering strength.

"Daddy said he had never been so disappointed in me ... and he ... I don't like to talk about it."

Ryan said nothing, but his arms tightened around her. They stood coupled and listened to the vibrations of the washing machine's spin cycle together. The humid air pulled down into Ryan's lungs as the moist heat and Summer's trust relaxed his body. He breathed in and out. He felt Summer do the same.

Ryan leaned his head down toward Summer's ear.

"Thanks," he said. It almost hurt coming out of his tight, tight throat.

Summer reached up a hand and pulled his head toward her mouth. He bent to her and she kissed him, sweetly, then pulled away.

"Can I go with you sometime?" Summer said, hesitantly. "To the prison?"

Ryan looked in Summer's dark, sincere eyes. There was no mockery there.

"Maybe," he said.

"Thanks," she whispered, pulling his head back down and kissing him on the ear. She was starting to nibble when the buzzer on the washing machine went off.

They jumped apart. Summer smoothed out her polka dots. She glanced at the washing machine.

"I'm just going to get us a beverage," she said. "Quarters, please."

She held out a hand and Ryan dropped change in it. He watched her walk away, admiring the polka dots and what lay beneath them. He retrieved Summer's red scarf from the plastic chair. He tied the scarf around his own head, do-rag style, and picked up the forgotten sandwich. He tossed it in the trash before turning back to the washing machine.

He opened the lid, reached in and pulled out a handful of shredded fabric. He frowned at it. How had she managed that?


	9. Part Nine

"Out of Season"

Part Nine

By Sister Rose

Standard disclaimer applies.

------------------------------------------

Ryan Atwood spent most of the next day at work with a half-smile behind his eyes. Not on his face, of course. He knew better than to let emotions show. But for Ryan Atwood, for the time being, life was good.

Seth wanted to have coffee with him again next week. It was payday, and he would be able to settle his bills. And Summer hadn't dumped him after all.

Oh, he knew it was still coming, but for now he was safe.

Even Josh the cut-up demanding everyone pitch in a dollar to the buy-Atwood-a-clue fund -- after Ryan had confessed he didn't know that the next day was Valentine's Day -- didn't darken Ryan's mood.

That afternoon Ryan started thinking about whether it would be OK to get Summer a tiny gift for Valentine's, about whether he could afford to get Summer a gift, about what he should get her if he did decide it would be OK to get her something and about when he would see her again to give it to her.

Ryan knew he wasn't Summer's boyfriend. He wasn't sure whether it was OK to get her a Valentine's present.

So Ryan didn't have his mind on the conversation around him when it turned to plans to head to a bar after work.

By the time he dialed back in, the conversation had gotten louder and more boisterous. And it was impossible for him to refuse, especially after Mr. Saunders insisted.

"Yes, sir," Ryan said. "I'll be there."

After work, he drove to his room, changed clothes and left a note for Summer -- just in case she stopped by to see him. He didn't put her name on it. Who else would be in his room?

Ryan was holding a bottle of beer long gone warm and watching Josh lose at pool when he heard the whispers start.

"Check it out," Josh said. "Mr. Roberts' girl. Wonder what she's doing here."

Ryan's blond head whipped around. Sure enough, it was Summer. What was she doing? And why was she wearing that dress? And those heels? And that smile?

Wow. He turned back to the pool table. He had to get a handle on the inappropriate jealousy. He had no right to be jealous over anything she wore. And her smiles were hers to give away as she pleased.

He'd even received some of them himself.

"Whose play is it?" he said.

But Josh had lost interest in the game. He was still frankly ogling Summer.

"Maybe she's dating Chip," he said. "Can't think of any other reason she would come in a pool hall dressed like that. Do you think Daddy knows his kid's a hottie?"

"What would Marie say if she could hear you?" Ryan said.

"No harm in looking," Josh said, slyly peeking around his own bottle at Ryan. "Marie knows that. I've seen her checking out your ass."

He grinned slyly at Ryan's gapemouthed reaction.

"Yeah, I was pretty sure you weren't interested," Josh said. He leaned back against the pool table, cue in one hand, bottle in the other, and waited for Ryan's reaction.

"I ... I ... What do I say to that?" Ryan said. "She's a nice girl but ..."

"But you're not interested in girls," Josh said. "We all know that. Just now? Everybody else was checking out Miss Summer Roberts prissing in with her mighty fine rack. You turned away. You know, you're lucky you live in California. Anywhere else, a guy like you would have a hard time in construction. But we're all open-minded and shit out here."

Ryan slowly took in the meaning of Josh's words. Everybody thought he was gay. He couldn't think fast enough to keep up as Josh went on.

"Everybody thought it, but nobody was sure until you started going out with that Cohen kid."

That was too much, Ryan thought. It was one thing for the guys to think he was gay. It was another to talk about Seth.

"Hey, Josh," Ryan started. "We're just friends."

"Yeah, right," Josh said, laughing. "I've never heard that one before."

Ryan was a bit bemused himself. He had never given the "we're just friends" speech about a guy before, but he plowed on.

"He's a nice guy. I met his dad a couple of times and he wants to talk about that," Ryan said. "Let's play pool."

"So that's what the kids are calling it these days -- talking about Dad'," Josh said, his meaning plain, his eyes still laughing. "Nice way to get ahead in the business."

That hit a little too close.

"I'm not fucking the boss' son to get ahead," Ryan said, stepping closer, inviting confrontation, teeth clenched. "He has a girlfriend. We're not talking about him anymore. Clear?"

"Whoa, Atwood," Josh said, setting his bottle down and spreading a hand in conciliation. "No harm, no foul, OK?"

Ryan slammed his bottle of beer on the edge of the pool table. It was still mostly full, and a little sour brew sloshed onto the green felt. Ryan glared at Josh. He felt his hands tightening into fists and he forced himself to let them go. He stomped to the bathroom.

Ryan's temper was escaping. It was a bad sign. He hadn't punched anyone in ages, and he could almost taste the way Josh's skin would feel around his knuckles, the way Josh's nose would buckle. The temper called to him, tempting him to let it go. For a few minutes he would know nothing but fury, body and red anger and fists. There would be no money troubles, no Summer troubles. He wouldn't even be Ryan Atwood, victim of the accursed Atwood luck. It would just be slamming and giving pain and receiving it and the sound of flesh on flesh.

He tried to tell himself the price would be too high for the oblivion. At the end of it, there would be sirens and bars. Sirens and bars and jumpsuits. He wasn't doing that again.

He washed his hot face in the tepid tap water, letting it trickle through his hands, and stared into the cracked mirror. Deep blue eyes stared out past sun lines on a tanned face with scars at the cheekbones. His hair was getting too long. He needed to buzz it again, even though Summer would complain about it.

Summer.

He had forgotten Summer in his fury over being thought Seth's boytoy. He was a boytoy, all right, just not Seth's. And it wasn't as if he wouldn't drop to his knees fast enough if Seth really wanted him to. He was just lucky Seth was a nice guy. Ryan knew how to do the expedient thing. He'd learned it the hard way and was unlikely to forget.

He almost started laughing, then stopped himself. In his current mood, it could turn into something ... different. Meaner.

He steeled himself to go back out and not look at Summer, to not glance at her olive legs or her bubble butt or what was indeed, he had to admit, a mighty fine rack. Josh had a way with the words.

And Ryan needed to apologize. Again.

He found Josh at a corner table. Other pool players had taken over the game, and Josh was using his bottle bottom to draw condensation rings on the table top. Ryan sat down.

"Sorry, man," Ryan said. His eyes met Josh's then he looked at the table.

"Hey, it's cool," Josh said. "I just wanted to let you know we know and nobody cares, OK?"

"Can we not talk about this anymore?" Ryan said. "Especially not about.... If Mrs. Cohen knew ... I need this job, man. It could be bad."

"Yeah, that's another thing," Josh said, leaning forward. "Chip told us he knew Cohen in high school and he was gay then, so whatever line he's feeding you about a girlfriend, don't believe it. Don't let a rich kid like that use you."

"Buy you a beer?" Ryan said.

"Naw, I'm at my limit," Josh said, sitting back and thumping his bottle for emphasis. "Marie won't kill me for looking at other women, but if I come home too drunk to perform, my ass is grass."

Ryan glanced toward the bar. Summer had gotten the bartender to mix her something pink with an umbrella. And was that a pineapple wedge? Probably put on her best airhead routine with a little bosom flashing just for the fun of watching the bartender scramble around trying to find umbrellas and tiny plastic swords and cherries and whatnot. Of course, now she would have to drink the vile-looking ... whatever that was.

He watched her lean into Mr. Saunders, flirting. He looked away. He wasn't supposed to be noticing Summer.

"Do you want me to drive you home?" Ryan offered.

"I'm good," Josh said. He stood and slapped down a dollar for a tip, then lurched toward the door, home and Marie. Ryan watched him go, envying his simple life.

Ryan wandered toward the bar and put his elbows on it.

"Orange juice," he told the bartender. He got a google-eyed response. Maybe Summer had scrambled the guy's brains permanently. He watched the bouncer-size bartender scrounge for juice and thought about Josh's words.

All his co-workers thought he was gay. Realistically, that wasn't so bad. If they all thought he was gay, they wouldn't be thinking about the possibility of him having sex with Summer. Hey, no wonder Mr. Roberts had been willing to send Ryan out alone with Summer. And no wonder no one had teased him when he got back from an entire afternoon with the boss' hottie daughter.

Ryan barely noticed as the juice arrived in a thick rocks glass. Deep in thought, the smells of spilled beer and too many bodies in too tight an area weren't bothering him anymore. He paid no attention to the loud, bass-driven music pumping through the air.

But he did notice when he smelled flowers: Summer.

He glanced to one side, and there she was. Mr. Saunders was on the other side of her, staring down into her black-and-white striped dress. Ryan pressed his lips together and looked back at his orange juice. He was about to take a drink when he felt a bump. He looked down

Summer had backed her glorious bubble butt into his thigh. And she was rubbing it against his pants, ever so slightly, while encouraging Mr. Saunders to continue the stupid story he was telling. Ryan could look down on the top of her head and from there straight down her striped dress himself.

Ryan felt his eyes crossing. He gulped down orange juice with a squeezed grasp on the glass and tried to regain his wits as he heard Summer laughing. He checked again. Mr. Saunders was still staring at Summer's cleavage and pretending to listen to her.

Then Ryan noticed it: a red cast on Summer's left arm.

She was hurt. Summer was hurt. How could it have happened? She hadn't been hurt when she left his place the night before. Something had happened, and he hadn't prevented it. Worse, he hadn't noticed when she walked into the bar.

Ryan looked at his watch as he felt another surreptitious rub. It was almost 10. He should go, but he wasn't going to leave until he found out what had happened.

He settled in for what he imagined would be a long wait when he heard Mr. Saunders excuse himself.

As Mr. Saunders left, presumably for the bathroom, Summer turned toward the bar. She didn't look at Ryan.

Ryan kept his eyes on the mirror behind the bar as he said quietly, intensely, "Are you all right?"

"Yeah. Long story," Summer said, her eyes also on the mirror. "Here's the short version: I can't drive with this arm and with the drugs I'm taking. You're my driver, got it?"

Ryan nodded once into the mirror.

"Does it hurt?"

"A little, but I need to talk to Chip," she said, looking at his reflection.

"Then ... here he comes," she said, looking over Ryan's reflection's shoulder.

Mr. Saunders pushed his way back to the bar between Ryan and Summer.

"Miss me?" he asked.

"Just like toe cheese when I'm hungry," Summer said.

Mr. Saunders took a moment to think about that before he decided it was funny. He laughed.

Ryan listened and watched them in the bar mirror with a new appreciation for Summer. Mr. Saunders was no brain trust, and Summer had no pity, but Mr. Saunders never knew it.

"Excuse me, Mr. Saunders," Ryan said at a break in the conversation. "Miss Roberts, it's past 10 o'clock."

"Oh, right, Atwood," Summer said. "Ten more minutes, OK?"

Ryan nodded, turned away and asked for a refill on his juice, noticing Mr. Saunders' glare.

"What's that all about?" Mr. Saunders demanded of Summer, not at all softly. "I can take you home if you need a ride later. You don't have to leave right away."

"Thanks, but I have to be up early tomorrow, and these drugs are starting to wear off," Summer said.

"Then I can take you home right now," Mr. Saunders said.

"Atwood is my driver," Summer said.

"I just want to make sure we're still on for tomorrow night." Mr. Saunders said.

"Of course," Summer said. "Pick me up at 7. I'll be wearing red." She brandished her red cast at him with a bright smile.

Ryan felt less like smiling.He knew Summer dated a lot. Usually on Saturday nights, she went to a charity event with an escort, wearing something by a designer with an unpronounceable name and an unthinkable price tag. Sometimes she would show up at his room afterward, bored and ready for sweaty entertainment. He always obliged, but he had never met one of her dates, the ones for whom the dresses were really intended.

"OK," Mr. Saunders said. "I'll see you then."

Summer turned to Ryan and caught his eyes. He lifted his eyebrows in question. It was her play, and he wasn't sure what she wanted him to do.

"Let's go, Atwood," she said with real annoyance in her voice.

Ryan nodded, stood up and gestured toward the door.

He nodded politely at Mr. Saunders.

"Wait a minute," Mr. Saunders said, blocking Ryan's path as Summer moved further away. "Why are you her driver?"

Ryan shrugged slightly, looking at the sticky floor.

"I don't have to worry about you trying anything, do I?" Mr. Saunders said.

"No, sir," Ryan said softly.

"Summer and I have an understanding," Mr. Roberts said. "We've been dating since high school."

There was a pause. He seemed to be waiting for a response, even though there had been no question, so Ryan finally said, "Yes, sir."

There was another long pause. Ryan felt Mr. Saunders' eyes examining him. He looked up and waited.

"Don't talk much, do you?" Mr. Saunders said.

Ryan shrugged again and sent his eyes back to the floor.

Mr. Saunders waited another long moment, then said, "I'm giving her an engagement ring for Valentine's."

Ryan kept on looking at the floor. His breathing didn't change but he felt winded. He thought the engagement ring was probably just big talk -- surely Summer would have told him if she were close to an engagement. Probably.

"Don't tell her, OK?" Mr. Saunders said.

Ryan nodded.

"She's waiting," Mr. Saunders said.

Ryan nodded one last time, turned and walked out of the bar into the fresh night air, hoping it would cool his head.

Summer was waiting beside her car in the glow of a parking lot light, leaning against the passenger door impatiently.

"What took so long?" she said, flipping him the keys.

"I'm sorry," he said, opening the door for her.

She frowned slightly and stuck out her good right hand. He accepted it to help her in, sliding his other arm around her waist as she sunk into the seat. He closed the door and walked to the driver's side.

"Where?" he said as the car rolled to the edge of the parking lot.

"Your place," Summer said, reaching out for the controls to put the convertible top down. The machinery started humming behind them, and the roof lifted and folded itself. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Ryan said. It was a lie, but his job was to make her happy, not to tell her the complete truth. He waited for the white convertible top to finish moving before he eased the car onto the access road. "What happened to your arm?"

"I tripped over the stepmonster's evil cat," Summer said. "It obviously was sent from hell along with the Wicked Witch of the West Coast."

"When?"

"This morning as I was leaving for class. Didn't see it over my stack of books. Spent the morning in the doctor's office getting X-rays and this lovely accessory. I picked red. Thought it would go with the most things. Though I'm probably going to be sick of it before I get it off."

"How long?"

"...do I have to wear it? Six weeks. And I have some nice drugs that I can't mix with alcohol and will have to hide from the stepmonster," Summer said. "I'm not supposed to drive while I'm taking them, so I kidnapped you. Getting here was a bitch with this arm."

"What were you drinking?"

"A Shirley Temple. I thought that guy's eyes were going to pop out of his head when I asked for it. I know he had to look it up; I saw him flipping through a book."

"How much chest did you have to flash to get it?" Ryan said slyly.

Then he winced. A cast added some heft to Summer's normal thwacking style.

"Ow," she said. "Don't make me hit you again. It hurts my arm."

"Ow, yourself. Don't hit me with your hurt arm," Ryan said. "What does Mr. Saunders drive?"

"A Beamer," Summer said, frowning at the change of topic. "Why?"

"I think he's following us."

Summer turned in her seat, catching herself just as Ryan said, "Don't look. I'll pull over."

Ryan stopped at a convenience store.

"What do you need?" he said, getting out.

"A red-flavored Slurpee."

Ryan made a "really?" face at her.

"Yes, really," she said.

Ryan entered the store and came back out, carrying the Slurpee cup well away from him as if the sticky red syrup were radioactive. He wasn't sure that it wasn't. That was a bright, bright red. Summer grabbed the cup and sucked heartily.

"Delicious," she proclaimed. "And you're right. That was Chip."

Ryan let the night air fill the convertible.

"Let's just sit here a minute and while I finish this delightful taste treat, you can tell me what's wrong."


	10. Part 10

"Out of Season"

Part 10

By Sister Rose

Standard disclaimer applies

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Nothing's wrong," Ryan Atwood said. He rustled the cellophane on the pack of cheese crackers he had gotten for himself, unwrapping them.

"What did Chip say to you?" Summer said obstinately.

"He was just looking out for you," Ryan said.

"Whatevs," she said. "Why would he think he had to follow us?"

Ryan pulled out a cracker and bit it, stalling. Crumbs went everywhere, and he killed more time with the business of brushing them away. By the time he finished, he hadn't come up with a good answer, so he tried the truth.

He shrugged.

Summer looked dissatisfied with that response.

"Look," she said. "I've known Chip since high school. He's an ass. What did he say?"

It was Ryan's turn to frown.

"He said you had been dating since high school and have an understanding."

"Sort of," Summer said dubiously. "I mean, whenever I need an escort and can't come up with a better one, I give him a call. Like for tomorrow night. But that's not dating, that's just convenient."

Ryan ate more of his crackers and Summer sipped on her Slurpee. The silence stretched between them.

The policeman's flashlight in Ryan's eyes startled him and Summer, too. She jumped and squeaked a little.

"Sir, could you step out of the car?" It wasn't really a question. Ryan reached for the door handle slowly, feeling his gut sink two feet. The cracker package fell to the floorboard unnoticed.

Ryan kept his hands open, unfisted, sliding his boots to the asphalt parking lot. He hoped he was moving normally. It felt as if he were in slow motion. From what seemed a great distance, he could hear Summer say, "What's wrong, Officer?"

Ryan put his eyes on his boots and kept them there. He waited for the next instruction.

"Sir, I need to see your license and registration."

Ryan reached slowly with one hand toward his back pocket. Using just two fingers, he snagged his wallet and brought it around.

He dug his license out, using both hands, slowly, slowly, no sudden moves, before handing it to the officer.

"Registration? Proof of insurance?" the officer said.

"The car belongs to Miss Roberts," Ryan mumbled around dry lips and a thick tongue. He hoped his words were intelligible.

"Uh-huh," the officer said. Ryan could feel the officer's gaze on him. It was a Newport-trained gaze that could add up the cost of Ryan's pants and shirt and come up with a number that didn't match the cost of Summer's red convertible. Police officers wouldn't like incongruity. Ryan waited for the accusations.

"Sir, could you step into our car?"

"Yes, sir," Ryan said. He clamped down on his sudden need to urinate.

From the back seat of the cop car, Ryan watched as the officer and his partner interrogated Summer. He hoped she would keep her cool, but as he saw her gesturing wildly with her cast he knew that wasn't going to happen.

He also knew what the officers had smelled on him: the stench of the guilty. He could spot cops blocks away, even off-duty, just by the way they walked and carried themselves. He knew they could spot him, too: a former offender, scared of them and probably in trouble.

It wasn't the first time he had been questioned by the police since he got out of juvie. It was just the first time he had been with Summer when it happened.

The first officer came back to the car. After he ran Ryan's license and it came back clean, he turned to Ryan and said, "So, you want to tell me what you were doing with a pricey lady in a pricey car like that?"

"I work for her."

Again the gaze raked over Ryan's homemade haircut, scarred face and knuckles, and secondhand clothes.

"Doing what?" At least the tone wasn't mocking.

"I work for her dad. I was at a bar tonight. Miss Roberts saw me and asked me to drive her home."

"Was she drinking?"

"No," Ryan said sharply, meeting the officer's eyes for the first time. Then he remembered himself and looked at the floorboard. "She told me she's on pain medicine, and shouldn't drink or drive."

"What was she doing in a bar if she can't drink?"

"I don't know."

"Were you surprised she asked you to drive?"

"I've been her driver a couple of times before."

"Did she make arrangements beforehand with you to drive her tonight?"

"No."

"She just shows up while you're out drinking and says drive' and you do it?" Now the tone was turning derisive. But Ryan couldn't answer back.

"Yes, sir." He chanced a glance upward and saw Summer was still waving her cast around. He hoped she didn't hit the other officer.

"Why would you do that?"

"I work for her dad. I'd like to keep my job."

"Were you drinking?"

"Half a beer and some orange juice."

"Would you take a Breathalyzer?"

"Yes, sir."

"Why were you stopped here?" the officer said.

"Miss Roberts wanted a Slurpee," Ryan told him.

"Did you force Miss Roberts to get in the car with you?"

"No, sir."

"Were you and Miss Roberts arguing?"

"No, sir," Ryan said.

He looked up again and saw the officer was writing down his responses in a notebook. Ryan's stomach had been loosening, but it screwed tighter around his backbone. If this had turned into some kind of investigation, he was going to be spending some time back ... Ryan couldn't even think the words.

He tried to focus on how Summer was going to get home, but he couldn't stop selfishly worrying about how he was going to bail himself out. He had nothing of value, not even his pickup, really. He had no one to ask for money. Without bail, he was going to be sitting in ..... back there, a long time.

Ryan couldn't even prepare his mind for his body's destination. It was all he could do to keep from panting at having a police officer so close to him. He could smell the dry-cleaned and pressed uniform, the oil from the gun, the leather of the belt and holster.

Ryan puffed obediently into the breath-tester when it was offered then sat quietly, awaiting the results. Summer was sitting on the curb of the convenience store sidewalk, shoulders slumped. She was rubbing her forehead with the fingers of her good hand,the other cradled in her lap. Her drugs had worn off.

He watched customers walk in and out of the convenience store, gawking at Summer and the officers and him in the back seat. His throat burned at the thought of Summer on display like that. He wanted to take care of her, but he hadn't been doing too well. He had no doubt Mr. Saunders would have done better. Hell, Josh would have done better. Just more evidence that Ryan was a loser from Chino and always would be.

His officer got out of the car into the night and went to confer with the other one.

Ryan wrapped his arms around himself. He was so cold. Fear did that to him. He had been cold all the time in juvie. The numb feeling reminded him of everything he had to lose. He saw Summer looking at him, seeing him in the back seat of a police car. Probably she was regretting her blue-collar sex adventure now. It wasn't quite so exciting when the police were involved.

Summer was wearing a thoughtful expression. He wondered how long it was going to take her to give him the boot, assuming he didn't spend the night in ... his mind shied away from the word again.

The officer came back to the car and opened the back door beside Ryan.

"Sir, you're free to go," the officer said.

Ryan looked at him in disbelief, trying to make sense of the nonsensical words, then decided not to ask questions. He took back his license.

"Thanks," he said, not really meaning it but unsure of what else to say.

He watched the officers drive away before joining Summer on the sidewalk.

They sat in silence, arms on their knees, feet in the parking lot. The silence grew.

"I'm really, really sorry," Ryan finally said. He didn't know what else to say and he couldn't bring himself to look at her.

"It's not your fault," Summer said.

"What now?" Ryan said, unwilling to discuss blame in the parking lot of a convenience store.

"I guess you drive me home," she said dejectedly.

Ryan helped Summer up and inside her convertible. He took the Slurpee cup and tossed it in the bin by the store's door. Then he cleaned up the cracker crumbs and wrapper, kneeling on the parking lot to pick them out of the driver's side floorboard.

His stomach muscles twisted. He didn't think he would ever eat again. He said, "excuse me," and got up and ran to the side of the building. One hand on the rough red bricks, he threw up until the crackers and orange juice and beer were on the asphalt instead of inside him.

He breathed heavily and finally wiped the sweat off his forehead and the drool off his mouth. He forced himself to straighten up.

He turned in place, looking for something, anything, any way, any place to get rid of his anger and fear. He stumbled into a Dumpster and kicked it. It felt good, almost like hitting someone, not quite as satisfying, but good. He kicked it again and again and again, adding his fists to the fury.

Ryan slowly regained his composure, leaning against the red-brick building, breathing deeply. He wiped his mouth one more time and slowly went around the corner to where Summer was still waiting in the car.

"Are you all right?" Summer said. "I heard some noises."

"I'm fine," he said. "I should be asking you. Do you need some water so you can take more pills?"

"That would be nice," she said limply.

The sad tone in her voice hustled Ryan into the store for a bottle of water for her and one for him.

She gulped down a couple of pills with her bottle. Ryan rinsed his own mouth and spat onto the asphalt a couple of times. He got in and started the car, rubbing his hands compulsively back and forth down the sides of the steering wheel. He wanted to apologize again but knew it was pointless. He fastened his seat belt, waiting silently for her to blame him.

"I don't want to go home," Summer said suddenly. "Do you mind if I crash at your place tonight?"

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AN: Chapter dedicated to Brandywine421 in thanks for many terrific stories.


	11. Part 11

"Out of Season"

Part 11

By Sister Rose

Standard disclaimer applies.

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Ryan Atwood unlocked the door to his room and let Summer in. She looked about to drop as she went into the bathroom. Ryan closed the door and heard running water. He sat on the bed and took his boots off while he waited. He hung Summer's keys on the nail he had hammered near the door for just that purpose about a year ago. Maybe he would be pulling that nail soon.

When Summer came out, her face was scrubbed of makeup and she was kicking off her shoes. Ryan took his turn to wash his face and brush his teeth.

"I can't unzip this dress with one hand," she said when he came out of the bathroom, stripping off his T-shirt. He tossed the shirt wad in the general direction of his closet.

Ryan stepped quietly to Summer's side. His hands went to her shoulders and turned her around. He swept her silky hair over one shoulder, letting a hand linger over the soft skin at the base of her neck. He unzipped the dress, ran his his knuckles down the exposed skin, and pushed the dress forward over her shoulders and down her body.

He knelt and traced the zipper line of her backbone with light kisses.

"Atwood, I'm too tired ..." she started, though her shivers told him differently.

"You're not going to do any work," he said.

He stood and picked her up and put her on the bed. Ryan laid a gentle, fluttering kiss on the top of her ear, then rimmed the edge in light pecks, ending at the lobe where a silver hoop hung. He bathed the lobe with his tongue.

"Atwood, what are you doing?"

He started the trail of light kisses down her neck, stopping at her delectable collarbone for a more lengthy visit.

"Oh," she said. "OK. Atwood. You have to stop. Now. Oh."

He ignored her, moving his mouth down the front of her chest and climbing beside her into the bed.

"Oh," she said.

He pushed a bra strap away, then a red lace cup. His hungry kisses inched closer toward his target.

Summer put one hand on his chest and one on his forehead, pushing him away firmly.

"Stop," she said.

He lifted his mouth and looked in her eyes for a moment.She really meant it. He flopped back onto the bed beside her and covered his eyes with his hands.

"What were you doing?" she said.

"Kissing you," he said, eyes still covered.

"No, you weren't," she said. "You were doing some sort of apology thing."

"Summer," he said. He couldn't think of how to say what he needed to say, that it was his fault they had been stopped and questioned by the police and that it was his fault that she was sore and tired and that he hoped sex would make it up to her.

Words wouldn't work. They rarely did for him. He had thought his actions would explain but apparently he couldn't even get that right.

"I thought you would like that," he said finally, inadequately, uncovering his eyes, hoping that if he saw her he could figure out what she wanted him to say.

Oh, how he hated talking. It always came out wrong, and it apparently had again, because she was sitting up and pushing her bra strap back into place and the red lace cup with it.

"Oh, I was liking it just fine. That's the problem," she said. "Please look at me."

He sat up and turned toward her. His eyes were on her bellybutton ring. It was silver and matched the ones in her ears. Everything in Summer's life matched except him.

"No," Summer said. "Look at my face."

He obeyed, reluctantly.

"From the beginning, we've never talked about what we have," she said.

Ryan felt his feet racing away from him, swooshing miles away. He swung them around and put them on the floor, trying to make sure they were still there. He spread his naked toes a little, staring at them, bracing for what Summer was about to say.

"Chip called the police."

"What?" Ryan said.

"The police got a call that a red convertible was swerving on the highway and the people inside were yelling and hitting each other. The caller said it looked like a carjacking."

Ryan swallowed hard, mentally adding up the damning pieces: expensive car, expensive girl with an injury, low-rent thug driving.

"I should be in jail right now," he said slowly. "I don't know what you said to the police, but thank you."

She shoved him between his shoulder blades.

"Don't thank me!" she said. "It's my fault. It had to have been Chip who called. He was the one following us. He had to have seen me punch you."

"His fault, not yours," Ryan said.

"No!" she said. "I was feeling down tonight, so I went looking for you to make me feel better."

"That's what I'm for," Ryan said.

"No!" she said again. "Please, just let me talk, OK?"

"Sure," he said, putting his head in his hands, feeling dizzy. She should get to end their affair the way she wanted. "Talk."

"Do you remember how we got together?" she said.


	12. Part 12

"Out of Season"

Part 12

By Sister Rose

The characters of "The O.C." belong to Fox, and no infringement on those rights is intended in this fictional work.

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Ryan Atwood, forbidden to talk, nodded. He remembered the company Christmas party at the fancy hotel, the smell of pine from the boughs decorating the reception hall, the rich, dark furniture that had made him unwilling to sit down, and he remembered Summer. Summer in that red velvet dress, coming onto him. He remembered his cold-blooded decision that if the boss' daughter wanted a lay, she was going to get one she would never forget.

He remembered the first time he had touched expensive fabric, the kiss of the red velvet, how he had smoothed his forearms over it so his callused worker's hands wouldn't catch on it. He remembered the brush of it over Summer's body and the first time he watched clothing slip away from fine-grained skin stretched over fragile bones.

He remembered thinking no one could possibly be as beautiful as Summer. He had known she was slumming and he hadn't cared. He still didn't.

He remembered resting beside her afterward, drinking in her scent and wondering whether any moment again in his life would ever be so perfect. And he remembered his astonishment when she wanted to see him again.

"I was drunk, and you walked me to my room," Summer said. "And I've been thinking that maybe I sort of forced you into having sex with me."

She wasn't looking at Ryan anymore. Was she embarrassed?

"Summer," he said.

"No, don't say anything yet. We met at the Christmas party, and Daddy introduced us so I knew you worked for him and you knew I was Daddy's daughter and when I asked you up to the hotel room, you couldn't say no."

He opened his mouth to protest, but she held up a finger to stop him. He didn't know what he would have said anyway. It was true.

But that had been understood all along. He had sex with Summer because she wanted him to, and because if he didn't do what she wanted, or if he didn't do a good enough job, she could have him fired.

That he liked the sex, too, that he enjoyed her company, that she was beautiful and had been kind to him so many times -- all that was irrelevant. He needed the job and would do anything he had to do to keep it. At first anyway. Things had changed. Now he would do anything to keep Summer, even though the best thing for her would be to let her go.

"And I was so drunk on those cranberry shooters I hung all over you and we had wild sex that was so good and then the next morning you took care of me when I threw up on the bed. ...."

Ryan opened his mouth again, and this time the finger touched it.

He laid a gentle kiss on it, and she snatched it away.

"That's what I mean," she said. "You're so nice that it makes me feel guilty, which makes me mad, which makes me be mean to you."

"You've never been mean to me, Summer," Ryan put in, gruffly.

"No talking!" she said. "And then the next day I told you that we had to do it again. So we did. And the next week I hunted you up and said we had to do it again. So we did that, too. And the next thing I know, you're giving me a key to your room, and feeding me macaroni and cheese, and asking about my homework, and letting me use your punching bag when I'm mad, and dropping your plans and driving me home just because I asked, and getting stopped by the police just because you were doing what I asked you to do .... "

Tears were in her voice. He couldn't stand that wet sound. It made him feel helpless and furious at the same time. If it had been anyone else who had made Summer cry, he would have punched the jerk, but he was going to have a hard time punching himself.

"No one has ever been so nice to me, and I'm worried all the time that you're doing it because you think I'll get you fired and not because you like me. And the sex just gets better each time, sweeter, like I never knew it could be. But then just now you're kissing me like a distraction or apology or something, and talking like sex with me is a job for you instead of something we share."

"Summer," Ryan tried again. She rushed on over his words.

"You never complain when I go out with other guys and you won't talk to me in public, except to call me Miss Roberts, like you think I think I'm too good to talk to you or something. When the officer asked me whether you were hurting me, I had to laugh and say, Him? No, he wouldn't do anything to risk his job.' And I realized it was true. You're only having sex with me because you want to keep your job.

"How can you be so good to me when you don't like me, when you think this is just a job?" she said plaintively.

Ryan jumped up and walked over to the punching bag. He gave it a blow. Damn! Another slamming hit. He wanted to pound away his troubles and lose them in the rhythm of the punches, but he was going to have to talk instead.

"What do you want me to say, Summer? It sounds like you want a boyfriend, someone you can date and take home to your family. I like you a lot, Summer, but I can't be that guy. Look around," he said, waving at the dingy room, punching bag included, exasperation creeping into his voice. "I have nothing to offer you except sex."

"That's not true," she said.

"Yes, it is," he countered. "If the police had taken me away tonight, I couldn't have made bail. And what if your friends had seen you tonight? They wouldn't say, Oh, how nice. Aren't they cute.' They'd say, He must be conning her.' I don't want to be your con."

"What do you want?"

"I want to be your man."


	13. Part 13

"Out of Season"

Part 13

By Sister Rose

Standard disclaimer applies

AN: I started writing this for myself. I never thought to have such lovely, thoughtful feedback from so many different people. I appreciate most that some of you have taken time out of your lives to go so far as to tell me which bits you like best: Thank you, thank you, thank you. I won't name names, because I'll forget someone, but I appreciate every single reader out there./Rose

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"But I can't be," Ryan Atwood told Summer. "Maybe I did start having sex with you to keep my job, but it's different now. I like you, Summer, and I like having you here. You can stay as long as you want. We can have sex as long as you want. But it's just sex and that's all it ever can be."

"I'm not embarrassed to be seen with you," she said.

"You should be," Ryan snapped. "What happened with the police tonight -- that's a regular part of my life. I'm used to it. You're not. You shouldn't be."

Ryan hesitated, then went on. "I want you here. But I know you shouldn't be here. So I want to make you a promise and ask for one back."

"What?" Summer said, tears in her eyes and dripping down the side of her nose. She swiped at them with the back of her hand. She even looked beautiful when she was crying.

"Please just tell me straight-up when it's over, when you're tired of me," Ryan said, his voice husky and quiet as he leaned his forehead against the canvas punching bag, hanging his hands on the chains from the ceiling. His bare skin prickled. He was sorry he was so weak that he had to ask for this. He couldn't look at her. He had promised himself he would never ask her for anything. "Don't leave me hanging, waiting for you to show up some Thursday. I promise I won't make a scene or yell or anything. I just need to know."

"Ryan, I would never leave you," Summer said. "I can't imagine my life without you, and I don't want to try."

Ryan looked at her until she stopped talking. Doe-soft eyes made him regret what he was about to say, but it was probably kinder to be cruel right now. He was almost angry with her, anyway, almost angry enough to be as mean as he needed to be.

She should know these things without being told. She was an adult. She knew how her world worked, even if she didn't always know how his did, and he would never fit in her world. She should know that. She did know that. Why was she making him say it out loud?

"This isn't going to last, Summer," he said finally.

Their affair was like strawberries, Ryan thought. They need to be eaten in season because they cost too much otherwise. And maybe strawberry season was over, because the cost was getting too high. He was making Summer cry and he didn't feel far from it himself. He clenched his jaw and made himself say the words.

"In fact, maybe we should call it quits right now. I'll drive you home."

"No," Summer said. She flew toward him, throwing her arms around his waist and slamming her head onto his chest.He didn't touch her.

"Please, don't let me go," she said.

"Oh, Summer," he said, finally putting one hand up to stroke her hair, feeling the warmth of her tears drop onto the skin of his chest, cupping the back of her silky-soft head with his rough palm. She fit against him so perfectly.

"Please, Atwood, please," she begged. "Don't say it's over. Don't make me leave."

He tilted her face toward him and kissed her hairline, sliding his lips closer to her ear.

"Not until you're ready," he whispered.

Their association had always been at her behest, and that wasn't going to change. He was hers as long as she wanted him, and he would hoard the memories of Summer like nuts for a bleak winter ahead, like making strawberry jam for when there were no more strawberries.

He pulled her body back into his and held her. She was so sweet. Ryan knew some people would laugh to hear it. Summer could be acerbic, he knew, but with him she was thoughtful and kind.

She never made fun of him when he didn't know Newport things. She never talked down to him because he didn't have money and she did.

She could even make Ryan laugh.

"Have your pain pills kicked in yet?" he said.

At her nod, he said, "Then why don't you go to bed and get some sleep."

As Summer clambered into the bed,Ryan arranged his pillows so that her injured arm was propped comfortably. He took a moment to look at her, fragile and winsome in his bed.

He really, really hoped she wasn't going to marry Mr. Saunders.


	14. Part 14

"Out of Season"

Part 14

By Sister Rose

Standard disclaimer applies.

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Ryan Atwood woke with a warm woman in the lee of his body. Sunlight filled the room, the same kind of sunlight that he always felt in Summer's presence. He slid his arm out from under Summer's sleeping form and pulled on the clothes he had been wearing the night before, digging the T-shirt wad out of the corner of his closet. He took Summer's car keys from their nail. How was he going to get his truck?

The U-Drop-Inn owners wouldn't mind a pickup being in the lot for one night, but he needed to retrieve it soon. But first, he needed to go to the diner.

Fortunately, Joyce was in early and was sympathetic to his plans. Ryan re-entered his room with a box of food balanced on one arm.

Summer had rolled over in her sleep, nuzzling her face into her hand like a child. Ryan wondered whether she had been a thumb-sucker and wished he could have seen her as a baby.

He quickly unloaded the box and turned it over for a makeshift table.

"Wake up, sleepyhead," he said, kissing Summer on the forehead. "Wake up."

"What?" she stirred.

"Breakfast in bed," he said.

She sat up in bed and leaned against the wall, fisting the sleep out of her eyes.

Ryan pushed the box closer to Summer and put a plate of pancakes on it. A small jar of strawberry syrup followed.

"What is all this?" Summer said.

"Happy Valentine's Day," Ryan said, a little uncertainly. What had seemed a good idea when he awoke seemed less so under the light of Summer's sleepy eyes.

"You made breakfast for me?" she said.

"Well, no," Ryan admitted. "Not made. Delivered. Joyce made."

"Strawberry pancakes?"

"For Valentine's ... look, it was a stupid idea and I'm sorry."

"No, it's so sweet. I love pancakes."

"You do?"

"I love breakfast."

Ryan and Summer had been having sex for more than a year, and he hadn't known she liked breakfast. He wondered what else he would never know about Summer.

"Just one thing," she said.

Ryan wondered what he had done wrong.

"Fork?" she said.

He handed her a fork and a knife and a napkin, then grabbed a thermos of coffee and poured her a cup.

He watched her lose all dignity and snarf pancakes like a starving rat, drowning them in strawberry syrup. He smiled as she inhaled food.

"Thanks," she said. "I guess a Slurpee wasn't all the nutrition I really needed. Aren't you going to eat?"

"I just brought the one plate, and I have to take it back to Joyce as soon as you're through," Ryan said.

"Well, that pack of crackers you had last night isn't going to last all through my plans for the day," Summer said. "First, we have to shower. Then we have to go get your pickup and bring it back here. Then we have to go shopping. I'm going to pick out the hottest, reddest dress anyone has ever seen and I'm going to leave Chip drooling in the dust. He's going to wish he had never even thought of messing with me."

Ryan heard these plans with alarm, especially the "we" word. He had planned a busy day, too, and the only similarity was the "take a shower" part.

"Who's going with you?" he said, trying for casual and hoping it didn't sound desperate.

"You are," she told him, chasing the last bite around the plate and through a puddle of syrup. "We can go get your truck, but then I need to take a pain pill and I still shouldn't be driving."

By the time they were showered, dressed and ready to go and Summer had quit complaining about wearing the same clothes two days in a row, Ryan had resigned himself to spending a day shopping with her.

"You know I know nothing about clothes," Ryan said, when they finished their errands and were finally on their way to the mall.

"That's my job," she said. "Your job is to look at the dresses on me and let me know which one is going to turn Chip into a shriveled, crawling, begging worm."

"How will I know that?" he said.

"Don't worry about it," she said. "Pull over there first."

She pointed her cast-covered arm toward a giant discount store, the kind he wouldn't have guessed she knew the name of. They drove up and down the aisles of the parking lot, looking for room.

"What are we doing here?" he said, claiming a parking spot triumphantly.

"Getting me some clothes that don't smell like a bar and getting you a Valentine's present," she said.

"What?"

"I didn't get you anything because, well, I didn't think you would remember the day, and then if I got you something when you didn't remember it, you would be all weird about it, but you did remember, so I need to get you a present. And I know just exactly what it's going to be."

"Summer, you don't ..."

"... have to get you a present. I know," she interrupted. "I want to. I wanted to before you got me pancakes. And you have to take it, so get that sulky look off your face right now and start planning on accepting it graciously."

She wasn't looking at him as she walked to the entrance, and Ryan had no idea how she knew his lower lip had started poking out. He attempted to comply, though he wasn't sure about his success in changing his expression to "suitable gratitude." He thought the wrinkled nose of bewilderment probably ruined the effect.

Summer marched straight toward the women's clothing section and started tossing choices into the basket Ryan was pushing.

She was on a mission, biting her bottom lip as she held up possibilities, considered them and put them back on the racks.

He watched her worrying that lip and then licking it. He imagined himself doing the same thing. He should have gone shopping with Summer a long time ago. He had no idea he could get so turned on standing in an aisle with a shopping basket.

"Which top?" she said, holding up two.

"Uh," he said.

"Never mind, Atwood," she said, throwing both in the basket. "I'll pick in the dressing room."

He followed her, still pushing the basket, to the men's clothing area.

"What size do you wear?" she said, stopping at a pile of folded khaki pants.

"I don't need anything," Ryan said, shoulders stiff. She didn't need to buy things for him.

"Did I or did I not ruin a pair of pants in the washing machine?"

She had, as a matter of fact, ruined the pants. They would do for cleaning rags now, but they were pants no longer. The shirt was still recognizable as a shirt, but its utility was going to be limited to nonstressful situations.

"Well, kinda," Ryan said. "But you were doing me a favor."

"No, I wasn't, and I'm not now. I owe you a pair of pants and a shirt," she said. "What size? Never mind."

She tossed a couple of pairs in the basket, grabbed a handful of shirts off a nearby rack and said, "Come on. We have to try these things on."

Ryan followed her to the dressing rooms and obediently took the armload of clothes to the men's side. He noticed the clerk watching him suspiciously.

Inside the tiny dressing room, he looked in the mirror. After his shower that morning, he had changed into his best pants and T-shirt. He examined the effect. Worn work books, thinning at the toes. Black pants, worn at the knees until they were almost gray. Too-tight black T-shirt trying to tear apart at the shoulder seams from too much wear. Hard-faced, close-shaven man with scars.

Conclusion: He looked like what he was -- an overmuscled poor boy with too many miles on him.

If even the discount store workers were suspicious of him, he needed different clothes to wear to the mall with Summer. If he didn't want the security guards to shadow them all day, he needed to let Summer buy him these clothes. The realization soured in his mouth.

She was hiding her charity, but it was still charity. He forced himself not to scowl as he left the dressing room and walked toward the giant mirrors where Summer was waiting.

She looked like muted orange sunshine. He couldn't stop a smile from pushing the proto-scowl off his face. She always had that effect on him.

"I don't know much about color," he said, "but I think an orange blouse doesn't go with a red cast."

Summer made a face. "I'm trying to think of it as complementary colors, but I'm afraid you're right. Who knew Atwood had fashion sense?"

She whirled her good arm around in the air, motioning him to turn. He did. She walked over and checked the size tag at the small of his back.

"No, those pants are too big," she said. "Try the other ones."

"They feel fine," he said.

She smoothed a hand down his backside.

"I want to be able to see your butt in them," she said. "Go."

She wanted to see his butt. And she had copped a feel. She must like it. He thought about that and smiled wider while changing.

"Yes, that's better," she said, back in front of the mirrors. She was wearing a green top and a tiny green skirt. "Do I look too much like Christmas in this?"

He looked her up and down, red cast included.

"A little," he admitted.

"What I thought," she said, sighing and turning back to her dressing room. "Go try on the blue shirt."

After two more runs for each of them through the dressing rooms, Summer was satisfied.

"Come on," she said. For a woman wearing very high heels, Summer was able to cover a lot of territory fast when she was inside a store. She had talked about shopping being her true calling, and Ryan was beginning to think it hadn't been a joke.

She stopped at the shoes.

"Summer, do you even know how to wear cheap shoes?" he said.

"I'm not wearing these heels through the mall," she said. "We're power-shopping and I want some cute sneakers."

"We could go to your house and get some," he said. For that matter, they could have gotten all her clothes from her house. It was a drive, but not an unreasonable one. She didn't have to spend money on clothes just to go buy more clothes, especially when he knew the variety of her wardrobe. Sometimes he thought he understood Summer. But when she acted like the rich girl she was, he didn't understand her at all.

"This is my party," she said. "And I don't want to go to the house today. I called and told the stepmonster I wasn't going to be home today. She's not that sad about it -- something about a naked day just for her and Daddy. Ew. I don't want to think about that too much and I certainly don't want to see it."

Ryan didn't ask any more questions. He didn't want to encourage the picture that had popped into his head of the gray-bearded Mr. Roberts and the tanbed-and-blonde Mrs. Roberts naked together, nuzzling and ... Blech.

"Sit down, Atwood. This could take a while," she said.

He found a shoe bench and plopped onto it.

Summer picked her way through the shoe racks, choosing and discarding and making little snorty noises of displeasure at the shoe choices.

He closed his eyes, leaning his head against the shoe rack behind him, savoring the experience of being with Summer, even if he had to go shopping to do it.

"Hold up your foot," she said, startling him.

"What?" he said, opening his eyes to a men's sneaker.

"Little slow on the uptake today, aren't you?" she said. "Hold up your foot."

She was right. He had done nothing but say "Huh?" and "What?" since he got up. He stuck a foot in the air.

Summer put the hard-soled shoe against his boot sole, measuring it.

"That should do," she said. "Take off your boots and try them on."

He looked up at her, standing with her hands on her hips and an impatient expression on her face. He looked down at his boots and started unlacing them.

They both winced as the sock smell hit them.

"Sorry," Ryan said.

"You must have a deficient laundry maid," Summer said.

"That must be it," he agreed, yet another smile flirting around the corners of his mouth. "Though I'm wondering how she knew an entire jug of bleach would melt my clothes."

"You knew!" Summer said. Her impatient expression changed to a guilty one. A totally guilty one. Ha!

"Finally figured it out," Ryan said with satisfaction. "Took me long enough."

"You're not mad?"

"I was at first."

"And now?"

"It's kinda funny now."

"Really?"

"But not a lot funny, so don't push it."

Summer made a big show of zipping her lip and tossing the key.

Ryan made a big show of obediently trying on the shoes she had picked.

They fit exactly. He didn't want to take them.

She must have seen it on his face.

"It's your present," she said. "If they fit. And if you like them. I didn't think you would like the loafers I found."

As Summer had said, it was her party.

"They fit," he acknowledged, looking at them and not at her. When Ryan had been younger, he had tried to look good in his clothes. He had grown out of vanity -- or it had been knocked out of him -- but he couldn't help but realize these brown lace-ups would look good with the khaki pants Summer had picked out for him. It was embarrassing, but it warmed him, too. She must have noticed that he didn't have any shoes, just his work boots. And she was taking care of it.

"Thank you, Summer," he said, "for the Valentine's present."

She smiled her brilliant smile.

"Come on, Atwood," she said, charging for the checkout lanes.

------------------------

AN: This chapter is for BonnieD, who thought I forgot about Valentine's Day./Rose


	15. Part 15

"Out of Season"

By Sister Rose

Part 15

Standard disclaimer applies

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As Summer arrived at the car, Ryan Atwood jumped out to open the door for her, taking her bags from her and putting them in the trunk. He had been detailed to fetch the car while Summer checked out.

As she had endangered the life of a grandmother with a herd of children, cut off a pregnant shopper and zipped around at least one corner on just two wheels, Ryan had been happy to leave her to her doom. Apparently, she had survived the wrath of the pregnant shopper. She appeared intact, at any rate.

"Where now?" he said.

"Food," Summer said.

"You just ate."

"Yeah, but you didn't. You're going to need to keep your strength up for the rest of the day."

Ryan had to admit shopping was more tiring -- and dangerous -- than he would have thought.

A meal would have to be part of Summer's Valentine's present. He couldn't afford it if he thought of it as food.

At the table of the Mexican food place she had pointed out, she ordered for both of them -- in Spanish.

"So those college classes are really paying off for you," Ryan said.

"Ha, ha," she said. "For your information, I can order food in just about any language."

"Why am I not surprised?" Ryan said.

"When do you have to go to work, Mr. Unsurprised?"

"Joyce said 4, but I can be a little late."

"No, 4 should give us plenty of time," Summer said. "What did you have planned for today before I kidnapped you?"

"Nothing."

"Atwood," she said. "That look on your face when I told you my plans wasn't just fear. There was a little disappointment there, too."

Ryan had no idea she had watched his face that closely.

"I was supposed to visit Trey today," he said. "It's no biggie."

"Oh, Atwood," she said.

"No, it's cool," Ryan said. "I called him from Nina's when we took the plate back and told him I'll be there tomorrow."

"I'm sorry to ruin your plans with your brother. And I can't go with you tomorrow."

"You didn't ruin anything," he said. "It's just put off a day, not canceled. Besides..."

"Besides?" she prompted.

"I-like-spending-time-with-you," he said, fast and low.

He waited a beat then looked up in time to see a smile blossoming across her face.

"Me, too," she said.

Their food arrived, cutting off conversation amid the warnings about hot plates and the rearrangement of silverware and glasses and napkins on the blue tile-topped table.

"Hey," Summer said. Amazingly, she was eating again. What a metabolism.

"Hey, what?" Ryan said.

"Why aren't you bitching about us being in public where somebody can see us?" she said.

"Oh, yeah," Ryan said. "I forgot to tell you. I'm gay."

"What!" she said.

Ryan enjoyed the confused expression on her face and took another bite, chewing it slowly so he could enjoy that baffled expression longer.

"Give," she said, waving her fork precariously close to his nose.

"Last night Josh told me that I'm gay," Ryan said.

Ryan took another bite and watched Summer splutter.

"So how did the guys decide that?" Summer said.

"Mr. Saunders told them," Ryan said. "Well, he confirmed it. I guess they've had suspicions all along. It must be the fancy way I dress."

"Chip? Chip the doody-headed water polo player with shaved legs and chest had the nerve to say someone else is gay?"

"Guess so," Ryan said, distractedly. He was trying to get past the image of a doody-headed, shaven water polo player. And the unfortunate image of Mr. Saunders in Speedos. Eck. "He saw me talking to Mrs. Cohen's son."

"He is such an idiot!"

"Mr. Cohen?"

"No, Chip."

"Why do you date him?"

"Habit," Summer said. "But that's over tonight."

"Summer, don't dump your boyfriend because of me," Ryan said.

"It's not because of you," she said. "Or not just you. And he's not my boyfriend. You're my boyfriend. He's just been convenient. But after last night ... he had no reason to think anything but that you're my driver. I wouldn't ride home with him, so he got mad and followed us and then called the cops. What a whiny baby. Just because I wouldn't do what he wanted. It would serve him right if rumors started about what a lousy lay he is. If I tell Misty about that one time ..."

"Summer," Ryan interrupted her plotting. She looked up. "Your food is getting cold."

She stopped her narrative and started eating.

Ryan felt a little warmed. She had just tossed the "you're my boyfriend" in so casually. It had to be the way she actually thought of him, however wrong it was. On the other hand...

"Is he?"

"Is who what?" Summer said around a mouthful of chile relleno.

"Is he a lousy lay?"

"That's what Holly says. Of course, she says Luke's a lousy lay, too, and I've heard from Misty that's not true. But then Holly slept with Chip for revenge after Luke dumped her when she wouldn't be seen with him after his dad came out, not that Luke would care whether Holly skanked around or not. But then Marcy said Misty was spreading that rumor for Luke because he knew Holly was telling everyone about her bad experience with him. So then after Misty went around telling everyone how great Luke was, Holly had revenge sex with Chip. Of course, Holly has always been a slut. Did I tell you about TJ?"

Ryan suddenly remembered why he didn't ask about Newport gossip. But it appeared Summer hadn't had sex with Mr. Saunders, so at least he wasn't having sex with his supervisor's girlfriend as well as his boss' daughter. That was one sin off his shoulders.

"... and then she killed herself with pain pills. Everyone said it was an accident, but I haven't spoken to Holly since. And you're not listening anymore. Which part was the real question? Whether or not I slept with Chip?"

Ryan's face gave him away.

"No, Atwood, you're not sleeping with the boss' girlfriend, just the boss' daughter," she said.

Ryan hated it when she did that. And it was happening more often.

"I know you hate it when I do that, but it's kind of fun," she said. "Are we going to have dessert? The flan looks good."

Ryan thought of several possible responses and finally said, "Yes, please."

He waited a moment, then, because it was Valentine's Day, said, "While you order it, I'll go to the bathroom and put on the new clothes."

Summer's face made the sacrifice worthwhile. Especially when that face jumped up from the booth and ran around to his side to kiss his face.

Ryan knew he was turning into a ball-less wonder, but at times like these, he didn't particularly care.


	16. Part 16

"Out of Season"

Part 16

By Sister Rose

Standard disclaimers apply.

------------------------------------------------

Ryan Atwood dragged out of the construction site at quitting time with heavy boots and a slow tread through the dust. His mouth was dry, but it wasn't just the heat and the dust. It had been a long week and a long day with at least one more ordeal in front of him.

Mr. Saunders had taken his dumping with the gracious poise of a 2-year-old denied a toy. And he blamed Ryan for it. By Monday afternoon, he had arranged for Ryan to join the concrete team permanently. Mr. Saunders spent Tuesday and Wednesday making snide little digs that the other workers found funny.

"So, Atwood, taking another break?" he said every time Ryan stretched his back or got a drink of water. "So, Atwood, not finished with that little job yet?"

Today Mr.Saunders had moved straight on to harassment that was probably illegal, if Ryan had been willing to complain about it.

"So, Atwood, need a little rest after a long night with your boyfriend?"

After ignoring those comments all day, Ryan now had to face Seth. He drove to Nina's,thinking about ways to sugarcoat unpalatable words.

He opened the restaurant door to the usual clattering chaos and brisk air conditioning. He scanned for dark curls. Seth already had a corner booth staked out.

"Hey," Seth said, looking up as Ryan arrived.

"Hey," Ryan said, sitting.

"Coffee?"

"Sure," Ryan said. "Do you need to see a menu?"

"Just coffee, thanks," Seth said. "I've got dinner at home later. Big powwow with Gramps and Mom."

Ryan signaled Margie to bring two cups of coffee. He wished they had a hand signal that meant "and make mine with Jack." He had a feeling he was going to need it before this conversation was over. He decided to start slow.

"So, how did the paper go?"

"Paper?"

"Yeah, we talked about a paper you were writing."

"It sang, Ryan, it sang. The professor was weeping by the end of the theme paragraph. He was sobbing by the end of the first page. And by the end of the paper, he was so worked up that he could barely scribble a B."

"He hated it?"

"Pretty much."

There went that conversational topic. Ryan waited until Margie had delivered the coffee with an extra hip swish and wink for Seth's benefit.

"She likes me," Seth said.

"She likes tips, but you can be on her list, too, if you leave her one."

"How far down the list?"

"Her current live-in is named Cindy.'"

"I think I was happier when I was dreaming, Ryan."

"Sorry, but it's sorta what I need to talk to you about."

Seth took an exploratory sip of the coffee.

"Hey, they've changed the filters this week. Kinda disappointing, really. I was building up some manly chest hair. What did you want to talk to me about?" Seth said.

"Perceptions and sexuality and how sometimes what people think isn't the same as what is, and how sometimes ....."

Ryan trailed off.

"OK," he said. "I'm not going to be able to say this the easy way, so it'll have to be straight-up."

Seth was wrinkling his nose. "Please. I dislike being confused. I far prefer being the confuser to the confusee."

"Everyone at work thinks I'm gay," Ryan said. "I can't tell them anything different for a bunch of reasons I won't go into."

"Are those reasons named Summer Roberts?"

Ryan gawked. Seth smirked over his coffee cup.

"Yeah," Seth said. "I saw her sitting on your truck a few weeks ago. Figured she wasn't here for the coffee. And I remembered some not-so-casual questions about her. Were you making sure we hadn't dated? Because I have to tell you, Ryan, as big as the crush I had on her was, and despite the fact that I still know her birthday, I'm not sure she ever knew my name. She ran with the in-crowd and I ran -- well, I didn't run with the in-crowd."

"Um, yeah," Ryan said, his train of thought derailed as he tried to remember whether Summer had ever told him when her birthday was. They had been together a year. Surely in that time she had celebrated a birthday. He looked at Seth and tried to rebuild his conversational course.

"So. The point is that because you're talking to me, all the guys at work think you're gay, too. Which wouldn't matter if it was just some construction guys yapping, but it's not."

"It's not Summer, is it?" Seth said. "She doesn't think I'm gay, does she?"

Ryan looked at Seth. Talking to Seth was like strolling through the funhouse mirror room. He only ever really knew for sure where the floor was, not which direction the conversation was going.

"Um," he said again, "it hasn't come up."

"That's a relief," Seth said, "so what's your point?"

"The point," Ryan said, "is that Chip Saunders is working on the construction crew now, and he thinks you're gay. Because of me. So if you want, this can be the last time we talk."

Ryan finished in a rush and stirred his coffee, which didn't need it, with intense concentration.

"Let me summarize in my own words, if I may," Seth said. "Chip Saunders has been spreading the rumor I'm gay since we were in high school. That's not news. But he sees me talking to you and starts telling all your co-workers in typical frat-boy fashion, which he is, by the way, that you're gay, too.

"On Saturday at Luau for the Hungry, Summer Roberts gives him his walking papers. Chip somehow -- and this must be considered corroboration of the adage that even a stopped clock is right twice a day -- works out that you and Summer are involved in spite of the gay rumor that he himself is spreading. Logic was never his strong point. I imagine working with him has been hell for you, though I hope he has outgrown shoe-peeing."

Ryan felt the expression on his face grow stupider and stupider.

He blurted out, "So you're not mad?"

"At you, no," Seth said.

"It's my fault," Ryan said. "He saw me talking to Miss Roberts."

"Do you call her Miss Roberts' in bed?" Seth said. Off Ryan's scowl, he added, "Never mind, not my business. It's hardly your fault that Chip's an ass. He has been since high school. I doubt an ass has changed his spots. If asses have spots. Do they? Maybe on their own asses? I don't know. Something to look up. So are we all clear?"

"I, uh," Ryan said. He sighed.

"I need to ask a favor," Ryan said.

At Seth's encouraging nod, he went on. "Because of me, Miss Roberts doesn't have an escort to Newport events. I hoped that you wouldn't mind, since you said you weren't serious with Anna, if you wouldn't mind, that is, if you could ..."

"Be Summer's date?" Seth chortled. "You want me to take Summer Roberts, my heart's desire all through my teenage years, out on a date? Be still, oh, my beating, pounding, dare I say throbbing heart. I thought this day would never come. It's a miracle. It's also pretty damn funny. I wouldn't have pictured you as a yenta."

Ryan had no idea what a yenta was. He wasn't really sure what most of what Seth said meant, though Seth seemed able to pick out Ryan's intentions based on precious few clues. He took another sip of coffee, trying to hide his confusion.

"Yenta too much?" Seth said. "Let me try it slower. You want me to take out Summer Roberts? Is that correct? Do I understand you?"

"Miss Roberts needs an escort to Newport events," Ryan said with determination. He put down his coffee cup and faced Seth head-on. He wasn't going to let his embarrassment get in the way of doing the right thing. "She's nice and you're nice and I think you might get along."

"Ryan, I don't think she even knows who I am," Seth said.

"She said you were in different circles in high school and she didn't know you," Ryan said.

"Ryan," Seth said. "I don't mind doing you a favor, but I don't think this is going to work out."

"If it doesn't, it doesn't," Ryan said. "But I know there's an event this weekend. You could call her and ask her."

Ryan reached behind him and pulled a piece of paper from his back pants pocket with Summer's private cell number on it. He hoped she wouldn't kill him. He had never called the numer himself, but he hadn't been able to throw the piece of paper with her handwriting on it away. He passed it to Seth without blinking.

"I think this number is good," Ryan said.

"Dude, don't think I don't appreciate it, but why are you pimping out your girlfriend this way?" Seth said. "Why don't you take her yourself? She's one caliente mama, and I can't believe you're willing to share."

Ryan's face closed. He had to nip that kind of talk in the bud.

"Miss Roberts has been kind to me. I work for her dad.She's not my girlfriend," Ryan got out through tight teeth. He needed to remember that he wanted Seth to do him a favor and that he didn't want to punch Seth. He really needed to focus on that.

"Wow," Seth said. "Did the temperature just drop 10 degrees in here or is it just me? OK, got it. No talking about Summer as your girlfriend."

Ryan nodded curtly.

"I do have one question, though," Seth said. "Does Summer know you're helping her with her escort problem? Because most of the Newport girls I know think they can handle it on their own."

"I didn't tell Miss Roberts I was going to ask you, but I'll tell her that I did. After that it's her decision," Ryan said.

"Does she always call the shots?" Seth said quietly.

Ryan didn't answer, concentrating on drawing circles on the table top with his spoon.

"OK, I know you're probably already mad, but I want to ask something else: Are you going to be able to work with Chip?"

"It won't be a problem," Ryan said.

Ryan watched Seth swallow his lie.

"So," Seth said. "Are we square on this? I ask Summer out, and you don't punch me for it?"

"Miss Roberts would be lucky to have you as her friend," Ryan said. Now he only had to convince Summer of it. He returned his attention to Seth.

"If you do this for me, I'll owe you," Ryan said. "Whatever favor you want. And I know I still owe you for the weekend I spent with your family. So, whatever you want, I'll do it. Anything."

Seth still hadn't made a pass or asked for sex outright. Ryan hoped his words were plain enough that Seth would understand Ryan was willing to pay in the only coin he had available to him.

"I don't know that you owe me," Seth said. "I've been thinking that I owe you. I guess you've been wanting to punch Chip Saunders for a couple of weeks now. It might make you happy to know you already have."

Ryan tried to rein in his confused expression, but it slipped out again.

"Yeah, I didn't think you remembered," Seth said. "The weekend you stayed at our house, we went to a party. I got in a fight on the beach and you totally came and had my back. One of the losers you hit that night was Chip. I've owed you ever since. I can't believe all you want me to do is take out the most beautiful girl in Newport. I thought payback would be a lot harder, like a blow job or something, and I was going to have to tell you I don't know how."


	17. Part 17

"Out of Season"

Part 17

By Sister Rose

Disclaimer: The characters of "The O.C." belong to Fox, and no infringement on those rights is intended in this fictional work.

--------------------------------------------------------------

When Ryan Atwood saw Summer's convertible in his parking lot, he was still trying to decide how to tell her about Seth. Should he tell her right when he got to the room and then have makeup sex after the big fight, or should he have sex with her and then tell her later so she could storm off after the fight?

Ryan wasn't sure which approach Summer would prefer. He did know enough to be certain the big fight part was about to happen.

He had tentatively decided to beg, a decision made unnecessary when he walked in and saw Summer and two other women, all wearing too-tiny shorts and too-tiny T-shirts and too, too much blue paint.

They were armed with paint rollers, and drop cloths covered every surface of Ryan's room, the surfaces that weren't covered with blue paint, at least.

Ryan stopped, key still in his hand, door wide open. He realized that the chattering noise he had heard as he walked toward the door had not been birds, but women talking. And now a bird was fluttering toward him, wielding a roller brush.

"Atwood, you're back early," Summer said. "Look! We're painting.

"Miss Roberts," he said. "I'm sorry. I didn't know."

Ryan mentally kissed his room deposit goodbye and focused on not growling at Summer.

"Should I come back later?" he said.

Summer was so excited, she was still twittering. He had missed half her commentary.

"And my friend Lana here is an interior design student, so I talked her into doing this project with me."

Summer winked at Ryan. "You remember, it's for my class."

"Yes, Miss Roberts," he said. "Can I help?"

"No, we're about done for today, aren't we?" she said.

At her friends' agreement, they began packing up their rollers and paint cans, still yammering excitedly. Ryan helped, wondering how long they had been working. It had been at least long enough for the smell of paint to fill the tiny room.

"I'll just finish cleaning up here, and I'll see you both back tomorrow morning, right?" Summer said.

As they left, Summer smiled and smiled and smiled, right up until her friends drove away and she closed the door, turned and scowled at Ryan.

"I do not want to hear it," she said.

"I wasn't saying anything," Ryan said mildly. "I wanted to ask you a favor, but you've already done me the favor of painting my room, so I can't ask for anything else."

Summer's brown eyes turned suspiciously on him.

"What favor?"

Inside, Ryan was cheering for himself. This tactic wouldn't have occurred to him before he saw the shambles his room had become, but it just might work.

"Mr. Cohen needs a date Saturday night to that charity thing," Ryan said. "I told him I would ask you."

"I thought you would go with me," Summer said.

"I have to work," Ryan said.

"You could take off a couple of hours. It wouldn't kill you to have some free time," Summer said, a variation on her usual riff about him working too hard.

"Well, I don't have any time off this weekend, and," Ryan said, voice hardening, "you know I wouldn't be going with you anyway. I don't belong at a Newport party."

Summer's scowl started sliding into the puppy-faced expression that Ryan couldn't refuse. Except he had to deny her this time.

"I just thought ..." Summer started.

"No," Ryan said flatly. "Anything else you want, yes."

They folded drop cloths in silence, then Ryan got out the hot plate and his single skillet.

"Grilled cheese?" he offered.

"Sure," Summer said listlessly. "No, on second thought, I'll just go on home. Get ready for tomorrow."

"Please don't leave," Ryan said, pat of butter on a knife suspended over the skillet. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry for telling me no' or sorry I'm leaving," Summer asked.

"Both," Ryan admitted. "I'm sorry the answer has to be no,' especially since I really need you to do me that favor."

"Which?"

Ryan scraped the butter off the knife into the pan and set the knife aside. He turned off the hot plate and walked to the bed where Summer was sitting.

He knelt in front of her and took her hands in his.

"Please say yes when Mr. Cohen calls," Ryan said. "I can't go with you and you know that. Mr. Cohen is a nice guy and he'll take care of you at that party, in case Mr. Saunders has been spreading rumors or tries something or ...whatever."

Ryan actually didn't know what Mr. Saunders could do to Summer in public at a fancy party, but he didn't like it, whatever it was. And though he suspected he knew what Summer was capable of doing in retaliation, he didn't think any of it could do her reputation any good. Having Seth there would help, if he could just convince Summer to go with Seth. And what he had told Seth was true: Ryan did think they would have a good time together.

Which made Ryan's irrational jealousy at the thought of his own machinations succeeding ludicrous. Or at least stupid.

"All right," Summer said softly. "I'll do it."

Ryan kissed her paint-stained hands then stood swiftly.

"Thank you, thank you," he said, in between peppering her face with kisses. Even the stupid get lucky now and then.

"Stop it, Atwood," Summer said. "Sandwich now, ravishment later. I've been working up an appetite."

"Really? Me, too," Ryan said. "Only I haven't been painting somebody else's room without asking."

"Tell me you like it," Summer said.

"I like it," Ryan said obediently, popping one more kiss between her eyebrows before sitting beside her on the bed.

"You haven't even looked," Summer said, indignantly waving her cast at the chaos of his room.

"It looks great," Ryan said without looking, eyes still on hers. "I like blue."

"It's not blue," Summer said, even more indignantly. "It's periwinkle."

"Oh, good," Ryan said. "Is that a good gay color? And if I'm so gay, why didn't I know that?"

"You're a butthead is what you are," Summer said.

"Better a butthead than a doodyhead," Ryan said, reaching his hand around to tickle her ribs. "What do you call someone when you're really, really mad at them?"

"Better watch it or you'll find out," Summer said, twisting away from his tickling hand.

"What did you tell your friends about this paint job?" Ryan said. He leaned back on his hands and waited for her answer. He had been curious since he found out he was a class project.

"Oh, I told them it's a reclaiming the neighborhood project for art class, using found objects and recycled items as inspiration and foundation. Which I am in fact supposed to do, though I think the instructor had in mind making sculptures out of empty beer cans or something lame. Whatevs. I told Lana and Felicia you had agreed to let me do whatever I wanted to this room, just like on the TV shows. I took loads of before' pictures, and then we started. Lana really does know a lot about interior design, and I told Felicia she needed to paint for me because I have this bum wing and she could count it as charity hours for her sorority. So we're all going to cruise alleys and garage sales over the weekend. I want to find a chair at least. I'm tired of having only this bed to sit on."

"You're tired of sitting on my bed?" Ryan said. "How about lying on it instead?"

He pushed her backward. The bed frame shook as she fell. He followed her to the mattress.

"Ooh, forceful now, Atwood?" Summer said.

"You know it," Ryan said. "And for a change we both stink, so we can shower together after."

"I don't stink," Summer said.

"No, that's just the fresh, lilac fragrance of flowers growing in the landfill," Ryan agreed, sticking his nose in her sweaty armpit and rubbing it around.

"Stop, stop," she giggled.

"You wouldn't like it if I did," Ryan said, then set about the task of proving himself right.

Later, cuddling in the afterglow, Summer said, "So when did you start pimping for Seth Cohen?"

Ryan kissed her collarbone. Summer's hair was his favorite part of her, but her collarbone was special, also.

"How did you get a paint stain underneath your shirt?" he said, one rough finger circling the blue blotch under her breast.

"Talent," she said. "Cohen?"

"I knew him when we were kids," Ryan said. He flipped onto his front and laid his head on her stomach, placing a kiss near her navel. That was a nice part of Summer, too. "He recognized me a few weeks ago. We've been meeting for coffee, talking. I think he's lonely. Maybe he would be a good friend for you."

"What do you mean?" Summer said. A hand trickled through his sweaty hair and then down his nose to cup his jaw. The thumb rubbed his cheek softly, repetitively, stroking over the scars on his cheekbones.

"You said you've been lonely in Newport since your friend died. And then her dad killed himself, too, right?"

"Yeah, he didn't want to go to prison," Summer said.

"But you don't really have many friends, right? I mean, today's the first time I've heard of Lana or Felicity," Ryan said.

"Felicia," Summer corrected, "but you're right."

Ryan jerked his head up to examine Summer's face.

"I'm right?"

"Yeah, once a year or so, you can be right."

"I'm right?"

"Yes! I guess I do need some friends, but Seth Cohen? Ew," Summer said.

"What's so ew' about him?"

"Well, he's this super-rich guy, right? But all he's interested in are weird bands and comic books and he's like a total geek outcast who talks way too much," she explained. "Or he was in high school."

"Why don't you give him a chance?" Ryan said.

His head was back on her abdomen, and her hand was stroking his face again. He talked into the soft skin of her stomach by his mouth, listening to the thrum of her heart and the rumble of her voice under his ear. One hand was tucked under Summer's waist. The other played with her belly button ring.

"You didn't like dating Mr. Saunders, right?" Ryan said. "Mr. Cohen is definitely nothing like Mr. Saunders. So at least it would be something different."

Ryan stopped and nuzzled into Summer's stomach, inhaling the paint smell all around him. Would fresh paint always smell like Summer to him now? He didn't want to think about not having her soft body to cuddle, about thinking of her when he smelled paint instead of when he smelled her perfume, about living without her in his life. He wanted to keep her. He needed her and she needed him. They were good together. Maybe they should stay together.

He heard a rumbled growling. Summer's stomach. Who knew something so little could make such a big roar.

"I guess that's my cue to remember I owe you a grilled cheese," Ryan said.

He climbed out of the bed and pulled on his boxers.

---------------------------------------

AN: I hadn't intended to put this up so soon, but I hate to make everyone wait, especially when there will be a big wait for Parts 18, 19 and 20, which I decided had to be rewritten completely. A couple of sentences survived the carnage. Look for more next week./Rose


	18. Part 18

"Out of Season"

Part 18

By Sister Rose

The characters of "The O.C." belong to Fox, and no infringement is intended in this fictional work.

---------------------------------------------------------

Three weeks later, Ryan knew he was about to become a full-time short-order cook. Mr. Saunders had poisoned the Roberts Construction site with snide digs about Ryan's usefulness and relative worth in the world. Ryan hadn't thought his co-workers would be so quick to believe a college kid they had known only a few weeks over a guy they had worked with for so long, but he had no other way to explain the sideways looks he was getting.

Ryan supposed it was the power of repetition at work: Hear something two or three times an hour and you start to believe it. And that didn't even count all the times Mr. Saunders had gone out with the guys and shared his opinion with them, nights when Ryan had to work and couldn't go out to a bar, nights when Summer was coming over and Ryan wouldn't go to a bar.

Just before quitting time Friday, Mr. Roberts called Ryan in and chewed him out for his bad attitude and inability to get along with Mr. Saunders.

Ryan stared at the floor, gaining intimate knowledge of the shape of the linoleum covering the trailer floor, and said, "Yes, sir," a lot, figuring he would be lucky to last another week.

"Take the weekend to think this through," Mr. Roberts said. "By Monday, this needs to be straightened out."

"Yes, sir," Ryan said.

He waited until he was sure Mr. Roberts was finished, then went out the door, closing it carefully behind him, not slamming, no matter how much he wanted to hear that satisfying crash. Like closing the door on a chapter in his life. Well, that was that. He had known it couldn't last. He could pick up his last check Monday and start looking for another job.

He looked around the work site. The sun was starting to set, and the timbers were bathed in a golden California glow. He listened to the chatter of men starting to finish their work day, their muffled comments carrying through the clear air. Ryan sucked it all in for remembering later.

He turned back around. No point in waiting until Monday. He knocked on the trailer, his knuckle rap echoing through the hollow door.

"Atwood, what's up?" Mr. Roberts said as he answered the door. Ryan looked at Mr. Roberts then put his eyes on the floor.

"Why don't I just get my last check today, Mr. Roberts," Ryan said.

"What's this?" Mr. Roberts said.

"If I could just get my last check, I'll be out of here," Ryan said.

"Atwood, you don't have to quit. We can work this out," Mr. Roberts said.

"I understand the situation, Mr. Roberts," Ryan persisted. "If I could just get my check."

Mr. Roberts sat heavily into his chair, and it rolled backward a little. He dug around in a bottom drawer for the business checkbook, then pulled a ballpoint from his pocket.

He checked a ledger and tallied Ryan's hours, then scribbled a number and a signature before tearing the check out by its perforated edges.

Ryan didn't look at the amount. He folded the check and stuck it in his back pocket. He considered asking for a recommendation but decided it was silly. He wouldn't be getting another job in construction. It was time to leave childhood and silly dreams behind.

"Are you sure you won't reconsider?" Mr. Roberts said. "You know, I hired you at Sandy Cohen's suggestion, but you've earned your way since then. If you could just make more of an effort to get along with Chip ..."

"Thank you for giving me a chance," Ryan said. He met Mr. Roberts' eyes. "I'm sorry for putting you in this position."

He turned and walked down the steps of the trailer for the last time.

"Hey, Atwood," Josh called from atop some framing. "We going out tonight?"

Ryan said nothing. He waved a hand once and then let it go,just like his career.

He would miss Josh's banter, and the jokes about who had gotten laid when and where and how often. Ryan would also miss getting paid. He needed to take his check straight to the Mr. Cash store and send out his last set of money orders. He had written notes last night to everyone who needed to know about the possibility of unemployment, letting them know it was the last money they could expect from him for a while. Of course, he hadn't expected unemployment to arrive quite so quickly.

He reached in his pocket but couldn't find his notes. When he got to his pickup, he rooted around in the tweeded fabric fold of the bench seat, but they weren't there, either. Crap. He was going to have to go back to his room to find them. Probably left them sitting on his dresser. Or maybe on his new wicker chair, an absolutely darling find at a garage sale, or so Summer said. Ha. And maybe she thought he actually believed she found wicker in perfect condition at a garage sale. He wondered which Pier 1 got her business.

Ryan drove back to his room, thankful that he wouldn't see Summer for another six days. Maybe he would have a new job by the time he saw her again. Maybe he would have thought up an explanation by then that she would buy. Maybe she really did find her wicker at a garage sale and maybe pigs really did fly.

He pulled into the parking lot and let out a "Shit" on an exhaled breath. Summer's car was there. Well, maybe she wanted to show off some new lingerie.

Ryan unlocked the door and opened it, surprised to see Summer on his bed with textbooks and papers strewn around her and tear streaks on her face. No lingerie in sight.

"Summer?" he said softly.

"What are all these?" she demanded loudly, holding up his folded notes. "You cheating son of a bitch."

"Letters," he said, a question mark in his voice. What else would they be? And why was she angry?

"To Dawn?" she screamed. "You louse, you rat, you, you, you ...."

Some of the letters went flying past Ryan's ear as Summer tried to come up with the right words.

"Yes," Ryan answered cautiously. "What's wrong?"

"Why didn't you tell me you already had a girlfriend?" she accused. Well, yelled.

"What?"

"Who's Dawn?" Summer said. She wasn't crying now, but she had been. Puffy eyes and a wet nose told the true tale.

"My mom," Ryan said.

"Your what?" Summer said.

"My mom's name is Dawn," Ryan said.

They waited a minute, not looking at each other. Summer's hands opened and closed a textbook cover convulsively, repetitively. She watched herself do it but made no effort to stop. Ryan knelt down to gather his wrinkled notes, sorting them into their envelopes. He carried them to his dresser and put them in his top drawer before walking back across to Summer.

Ryan settled cautiously beside her on the bed and looked at her sideways. She didn't meet his eyes as he carefully salvaged an economics text from her hands, smoothing the glossy cover. He gathered all the papers around Summer and stacked them neatly into a binder. He repacked her college gear in her backpack and stowed it below the bed. Out of things to do, his hands started playing with the tassels on the new silky bed cover Summer had bought him, claiming the old one didn't match the new walls.

He waited for her to talk. She would when she was ready.

"It's spring break," she finally said, voice low and embarrassed. "I told everyone I was leaving town, and then I thought I would spend the week here with you instead."

"Spend the week here? With me?"

"Yeah, kinda like playing house for a week," she said.

"That's great," Ryan said lamely.

"Yeah," Summer said. "I thought it was a great idea until I got here and I read these letters. I mean, I knew they were your private letters and I shouldn't read them, but I saw the name Dawn' and I saw you were sending her money, and I thought, that stinking man-whore is seeing someone else,' and then I read the letters and you're supporting ... how many people are you supporting?"

"I don't like to talk about my family," Ryan said, his face closing. He looked away.

"You don't have to tell me ..." Summer said then finished, "but I really want to know. Especially the part about half of them being women."

Ryan rubbed his hand over his face and tried to think of a way to explain his family, his messed-up, dysfunctional family, his flawed, not-always-loving, imperfect family that was nonetheless all he had to claim for kin.

"My family isn't like yours, Summer," Ryan found himself saying. "My mom -- Dawn -- is a drunk. She's in a rehab place and I'm paying for part of it, trying to give her a second chance, you know? If she doesn't finish the rehab, she'll be in jail for a long time on a manslaughter charge.

"You know about Trey," Ryan went on. He checked Summer's face. She hadn't fled in disgust yet. He went back to watching his hands fray a tassel. "I send him a little each month for the commissary. He can buy cigarettes and whatever and trade them so he doesn't get beaten up every day of his life.

"My dad, I hadn't talked to him in years, but about six months ago, I heard he's out of the pen in this halfway house. I send him a little bit so he can make restitution and stay out of prison. That's it. Oh, and now and then I send a little bit to my friend Arturo's mom, kind of a thanks for taking care of me when I was little. We used to live near them, and now she's taking care of his niece, so I can pay them back some."

"That's it?" Summer said in a flat tone. "You're supporting four adults plus yourself?"

"Not really supporting," Ryan said. "Just helping out. And these notes are to tell them I can't do anything for them for the next couple of months."

"Why didn't you tell me about your family?" Summer said.

Ryan went to the bathroom and got a cloth. He ran the water until it was warm, then wet the cloth and carried it out to Summer.

She dabbed around her eyes, missing a couple of mascara spots. Ryan sat beside her on the bed, not looking at her.

"You don't have to hide it from me," Summer said. "You know my family isn't exactly The Brady Bunch.' I can't stand my stepmother, and my dad and I don't get along."

"Your dad loves you," Ryan said. "My family's like a train wreck. A bad one. I'd jump off, but I'm part of the train."

He took the wash cloth back from her and held her chin with one hand. He wiped around her eyes with the other, gently removing the blotches she had missed.

"I was so mad I was about to drive over to the site and yell at you," Summer said.

"I'm glad you didn't," Ryan said honestly, looking at Summer's face and not weighing his words. "I didn't need two dramas at work today."

"What was the other drama?"

Uh-oh. Ryan had flubbed that one and it was too late to change his answer.

"Um," he started, folding and refolding the cloth in his hands into tighter and tighter squares. "Today was my last day working for your dad."

"Did he fire you because of me?" Summer demanded instantly.

"No," Ryan was able to say truthfully. Thank God she had phrased the question that way. "I asked for my last check."

"What happened?" Summer said relentlessly.

"It was a mutual thing," Ryan said. "It was time for a change."

He got up and took the wet, mascara-covered cloth back to the bathroom and spread it on the edge of the porcelain sink.

"No, it wasn't," Summer said, following him and blocking the door. "You've never lied to me before, Atwood. Don't start now."

"Summer, this is my fault," Ryan said.

"Still lying," Summer said. "You would never quit a job. If I weren't your third job you might take another one, but you wouldn't quit one."

It was nice to hear Summer knew him so well. It was also inconvenient to hear Summer knew him so well.

"Summer," Ryan said.

"Just shut up, Atwood, until you can tell the truth," she said. She stomped over and got her car keys off her nail. Someone -- not he -- had painted a goopy peach heart around the nail on the periwinkle wall. The heart matched the peach baseboards but clashed with the Pepto-pink bathroom. "Let's go."

"Where?" Ryan said. He wasn't sure he wanted to get in a car with her in this mood. He wasn't sure she should be driving in this mood at all.

"To the post office, right?" Summer snapped.

Ryan nodded and walked out. At the last minute, he remembered his letters and ran back to snatch them out of his dresser. When he got to the car, Summer was standing by the passenger side waiting for him.

"You're my driver," she said, gesturing with her cast. "You drive."

He opened the door for her and went around to the driver's side to let himself in. He was too confused to think, so he didn't. He buckled his seat belt and helped Summer with hers, started the car and put it in reverse. They sat in Summer's bucket seats, on separate sides, in silence as they drove. The sound of the tires grinding over the freeway seemed especially loud to Ryan.

"I'm going to find out," Summer said suddenly. "You might as well tell me, because I'm going to find out what happened."

She was right. He should probably just tell her. But he didn't want to be the one to wreck her illusions.

Ryan drove, shifting gears smoothly as Summer sat staring out the window, chin firmly jutted out in a displeased princess expression. Her arms were crossed, and her manicure was doing a tap dance on her biceps. Ryan would have taken time to admire how the nail gloss and lip gloss matched, but he was driving. And he was scared, slightly.

Which was the thought that made him pull off the freeway and into an empty church parking lot. Acres of empty parking spaces surrounded the red convertible as Ryan stopped the car across the lines. The sun had set further, and Summer's car cast a shadow halfway across the lot. Of all the things Ryan had learned in juvie, the paramount lesson was to face his fears directly. They weren't going to go away, and they weren't going to get better until he had taken care of them. He killed the engine and spoke into the silence.

"OK," he said. "I'll tell you."

Summer finally deigned to look at him.

"The truth?" she said.

"You won't like it, and you have to promise not to do anything about it," he said.

"I don't know that I can make that promise to somebody who doesn't trust me with the truth."

Ryan paused and bit his lower lip, then went on.

"OK, I deserved that," he said. "But I still don't want you to do anything about it. I should have quit a long time ago. I shouldn't have been taking your dad's money while I'm having sex with his daughter. So this is all my fault. It just got around to biting me on the ass."

Summer dropped the princess pose. She uncrossed her arms and turned in her seat to face him.

"I couldn't get along with Mr. Saunders," Ryan said. "Your dad called me in and asked me to make a better effort. So I asked for my last check."

"So Chip was still giving you a hard time over me," Summer said.

"No!" Ryan said. "I could have worked harder to make Mr. Saunders like me." He paused. "But I didn't want to."

"I know better than anyone that Chip's an ass," Summer said. "But it was only for a few more weeks. You could have done it."

Ryan winced, and Summer caught him.

"What else," she demanded.

He hadn't wanted to tell her, but ...

"OK, Summer," Ryan said, looking out the driver's side window. He was sorry he had to tell her the facts of life about construction in California. "Who's your dad's biggest supplier?"

"Saunders Industries, but what does that have to do with ... oh," she answered.

"And in a business where everything is about deadlines, who does your dad depend on the most?" Ryan said rhetorically. "So when the son of his most important supplier says a day laborer is a lazy bum, who is your dad going to believe? And didn't you say they're friends, too? When the son of a friend says the concrete-pourer oughta go, what's your dad gonna say?"

"Daddy fired you because of Chip?" Summer said.

"No. I quit so he wouldn't have to fire me," Ryan corrected. "He's been way too good to me to be put in the middle like that. And like I said, I should've quit when you and I got involved, but I really needed the money."

"And you don't now?"

"Not enough to cause trouble for your dad. And for you."

"Me? I can take care of myself."

"Yeah, but you shouldn't have to," Ryan said. He reached for the door latch, got out of the car and walked around to slump on the rear bumper.

Summer followed him. Ryan took in the fresh California air of the early evening. Newport air always smelled different to him than Chino air ever had or juvie air or Fresno air or any other kind. Newport air smelled like hope.Sometimes Ryan wasn't sure he should be breathing it.

"How have your dates with Mr. Cohen been going?"

"Seth," she emphasized his name, "is a funny guy. I've had worse dates. And no, I didn't sleep with him."

"Summer," Ryan sputtered. "I didn't mean ... I shouldn't have asked ... You didn't have to ..."

"I know you wanted to know, and I know you wouldn't have asked. And I wouldn't sleep around behind your back anyway. You should know that. God, you're irritating," Summer said.

"And now I'm jobless and irritating," Ryan said. "Do you really want to spend the week with me? I'm going to be crabby until I find another job."

Summer looked him up and down. Her eyes stopped on the crotch of his work pants. She reached out -- with the arm without a cast on it, thank goodness -- and thwacked him in the stomach.

"You can make it up to me with sex."


	19. Part 19

"Out of Season"

Part 19

By Sister Rose

Standard disclaimer applies

For almost a week, Ryan Atwood and Summer Roberts played house and pretended the world outside didn't exist.

Each morning, he went to get a newspaper to search the classifieds. They drank orange juice in bed while they read possibilities together. He would call on the most promising ones while she stayed at the room and cleaned or painted her nails. Then he worked the lunch shift at the diner before returning to the room.In the evenings, he cooked for them on his hot plate while she read aloud from a book she had been assigned for class. At night they had sex until they fell asleep.

Ryan cherished the routine. He was happier than he had ever been and he even started allowing himself to hope it would last.

Summer seemed happy, too. Ryan could tell, because she complained a lot. That was one of the things he liked about his girl. When things weren't going well, Summer wouldn't say a word. When things were, Summer bitched.

And things must have been going really, really well.

By Tuesday, Ryan's sandwich diet had palled on Summer's palate. No more grilled cheese or peanut butter, she decreed. Ryan got her some fruit from the grocery store. Overpriced strawberries, heavy on the green, light on the sweet. Ryan didn't allow himself to think about any other meaning for those berries.

By Wednesday, Summer was missing her favorite TV programs and complaining about the lack of even a radio in Ryan's room.

By Thursday, Summer had started complaining about the way the springs of Ryan's broken bed poked through the slinky, expensive sheets and stabbed her in the night. Ryan answered Summer by cuddling her closer and feeling her nuzzle his neck in the night, warm breath blowing into the hollow of his throat.

And then there was the sex. Apparently, her joke hadn't been a joke at all. Ryan was already exhausted, and the week wasn't over yet.

That day he asked Summer to go with him to see Seth at Nina's, where she had decided on the hamburger with cheese and was wolfing it with an amazing lack of gentility when Seth slid into the booth beside her.

"Don't slow down on my account," he told her, squishing his way across the red vinyl. "I'm having the same. I told Margie on the way in, but she required assurance that her hand would not be slapped on a bun and devoured before she would agree to deliver a burger to the table. She also is delivering two salads, one for me and one for you, Summer. They're in the nature of a test. She wants to be sure you're an omnivore not strictly carn. Ryan, good to see you."

Ryan nodded.

"Atwood hasn't fed me all week," Summer said between bites.

"Margie indicated as much."

"I gave you sandwiches," Ryan protested. "And strawberries."

"Green, sour strawberries. And peanut butter sandwiches. I hate peanut butter. It's a leading cause of complexion disorders."

"Complexion disorders?" Seth said.

"I read it in Vogue," Summer said.

"Complexion disorders?" Seth repeated. "Is that a euphemism for zit?' Cause I've got to tell you it's a lot longer than just saying zit.'"

"EW," Summer said. She gave it a little more zing than usual. Ryan hadn't heard a double-whammy "ew" from Summer in a long time. It was nice to hear, even if Seth had brought it out of her and not Ryan.

Ryan pushed his jealousy back down to the bottom of his mind, reminding himself that he wanted Seth and Summer to hit it off.

"So what have you been doing during spring break besides starving?" Seth said. "Me, thanks for asking, I've been hanging out with La Madre and about going crazy from boredom. Believe it or not, there is only so much PlayStation that can be played in one week."

"Oh, I believe it," Summer said. "I'm ready to start studying again, that's how bored I am. We've read "The Scarlet Letter" twice. Atwood has no TV, no radio, no nothing."

"Well I guess all that's left is sex," Seth said.

"We've been doing that," Summer said. "But a starving girl has her limits."

"Hey," Ryan protested. "Sitting right here."

"Not that you haven't been terribly inventive," Summer said hastily, reaching across the table to pat Ryan on the hand. He felt himself blushing and hoped Seth wouldn't notice.

"All right, I've probably heard enough anyway," Seth said, watching the interaction with the enthusiasm of a voyeur. "Too much. Moving on to other domestic matters, I was curious how the periwinkle worked out."

"It's blue," Ryan said.

"Summer said periwinkle," Seth said.

"It's periwinkle," Summer said.

"Accented with peach highlights," Ryan said. "And hearts. And the bathroom is pink."

"Wow, man, you're going to need a testosterone injection every week just to keep from growing tits," Seth said.

"Tell me about it," Ryan said. "Just last night I had the urge to take a bubble bath and exfoliate with an herbal-scented natural seaweed cleanser direct from the Aegean."

"Hey," Summer said, stung. "I only made you try it once, and your skin is softer and you're not dead. Though that's still possible."

"Smoother skin, huh?" Seth said. "Can I feel?"

He stuck out his hand. Ryan ducked backward.

"No! It, uh, wasn't my face she exfoliated."

"Now that's definitely too much information," Seth said, retracting his hand hastily.

Margie arrived, dropping off the steaming burger and crisp salads with an alacrity that suggested she did in fact fear Summer's appetite.

"Hey, Atwood, Joyce wants to talk to you," Margie said, pulling a salad dressing bottle out of her apron pocket and depositing it on the table.

"Sure thing," Ryan said.

He slid out of the booth, leaving Seth and Summer together, laughing. He talked to Joyce and returned to the table, where Seth and Summer were still laughing. He winced in sympathy as Summer gave Seth one of her patented thwacks in the stomach. That had to hurt, especially on a fully burgered belly.

"So, Atwood," Summer said. "Seth tells me there's a shark movie we absolutely have to see. We can be at the IMAX in 15 minutes."

"Anything wrong?" Seth said, taking in Ryan's blank face as he reseated himself in the booth beside Summer.

"No, Joyce just asked me to work tonight," Ryan said. "Summer, I won't be at the room until we close. Murphy's sick again. Why don't you go see the movie without me?"

"OK," Summer said uncertainly. "If you're sure.I mean, we were going to spend the week together."

"I know, but Joyce really needs me tonight," Ryan said. "Murphy called in sick."

"All right," Summer said. "I'm just going to check out the little girls' room before we leave."

Ryan got up and let Summer out before sitting again.

"Hey, man, it won't be as fun without you," Seth said, turning back to Ryan. "See you next week?"

"Sure," Ryan said. "Listen, thanks for taking care of my girl."

"No problem," Seth said. "I take it things are moving forward? You just used the words my girl' and I distinctly heard you call her Summer' right in front of me. That's progress, my man."

"Yeah," Ryan shrugged and squirmed. He had been getting cavalier about talking in front of Summer and Seth, but somehow it seemed right. "It started to seem silly to call her anything else."

"Especially when you're bonking her brains out," Seth said.

He leaned backward on Ryan's glare and looked surprised when Ryan's glare turned over into a reluctant smirk.

"Summer prefers the phrase, facilitating her feminine empowerment through expression of her sexual identity in a mutually rewarding symbiosis,'" Ryan informed Seth.

"Dude," Seth said, stunned. "No way."

Ryan smirked some more.

"Dude," Seth said, shaking dark curls. "You have got to take that women's studies textbook away from her."

"I'm told that would be an example of historically patriarchal interference through a typically masculine aggressive response to female self-realization," Ryan said, glancing up. "Also, she might hit me."

"And she does pack a punch," Seth said, rubbing his belly. "You have suffered long and mightily in the service of your gender. On behalf of the rest of us, I salute you."

"Are you ready?" Summer said, plopping down on Seth's side of the booth and linking her arm with Seth's as she returned from powdering her nose or whatever other arcane ritual she had performed in the tiny one-seater in the back of the diner. Her free hand pushed Seth's curls out of his eyes. "You need a haircut."

"You sound like my mom," Seth said. "That's not a good thing."

"You want him to cut his hair," Ryan questioned.

"Um, yeah," Summer said.

"You want him to CUT his hair," Ryan said again.

"Absolutely," Summer said, returning her peach hand to Seth's forehead and ruffling his dark locks.

Ryan looked at Summer. He pulled some of his hairs away from his face and measured them. He looked back at Summer.

"Consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds," she said defensively.

Seth looked from Summer to Ryan and back again.

"OK, I don't know what just went on here, but I'm ready to go if you are, Summer," Seth said.

"Ready," Summer said.

She untucked her arm from Seth's and ran over to Ryan's side of the booth for a fast goodbye kiss. He pecked her back and watched them go off together. He wouldn't give way to jealousy. Going to movies was for Seth and Summer. Going to work was for him. He got up from the booth and went to work.


	20. Part 20

"Out of Season"

Part 20

By Sister Rose

Standard disclaimers apply

AN: A quick clarification: Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote the line "A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds." I didn't, but thanks for thinking I'm that clever! And now on to the story.

Ryan Atwood was sweating in the kitchen at Nina's. His head was encased in a white cotton food-service bonnet that caught all the sweat from his scalp and waxed it back into his buzzed hair. His buzzed hair that he wouldn't be growing out no matter what Summer said.

Damp gray perspiration circles adorned his T-shirt, and grease and flour dotted his apron. He wielded his long-bladed metal spatula with the ease of long practice, scrambling eggs on one corner of the grill and sauteing mushrooms and onions on another. His eyes were on the tuna melt at top right. It needed at least 30 more seconds, giving him just enough time to flip the short stack of pancakes someone had ordered at 11 at night.

Pancakes at 11. It couldn't be Seth. Seth was with Summer. They were at the IMAX, watching sharks, which was something Ryan couldn't think about while he was busy cooking, thank goodness. And he could go with them some other time.

Ryan scooped up the tuna melt on his spatula, whisked it onto a plate he had pregarnished with parsley, a pickle spear and potato chips, then traded his long-bladed spatula for a long-bladed knife. He sliced the sandwich into triangles and stabbed each section with a yellow plastic-feathered toothpick. He slammed the loaded plate on the pass-through, slapped the bell and yelled "Margie. Order up," before grabbing his spatula and giving the eggs another stir.

Short-order cooking was all about timing, and Ryan had his down. He didn't even have time to think about how he would be at the movies with Seth and Summer if Murphy hadn't called in sick.

Called in hungover was more like it, Ryan thought. But Ryan could use the money. Eight more hours of pay would help. Sixteen would be better but Murphy's hangovers -- er, illnesses -- usually cleared up in a day. Then Ryan could spend more time with sweet, whining Summer. He felt a grin grow across his face, thinking about how she would gripe about how the sharks were totally lame and how the popcorn had been stale and how Seth had forced her to share an enormous tub and she wouldn't be able to eat for a week. She wouldn't mention the self-inflicted cheeseburger. It would all be Seth's fault. Ryan would give her a foot rub and then they would have sex. It was going to be a great night. His grin grew.

An overworked waitress hand hit the metal ticket carousel and shoved a new order sloppily under the springs, pulling Ryan back to his job. He spun the carousel around and read the ticket before digging in the cold bin and coming up with a plastic-wrapped hamburger patty. He unwrapped it and slapped it on the grill with one hand and reached overhead with the other for the salt and pepper shakers. He dosed the patty and put the shakers back in their place, just as the smoke and sizzle of the meat hit his nostrils. Ryan's spatula slid under the pancakes and one by one dropped them onto a hot plate. He grabbed his knife and twisted a knob of butter -- OK, medium-quality margarine -- on top of the stack.

"Two points," Ryan said under his breath as he tossed the crumpled plastic wrap from the hamburger patty successfully toward the trash can. He shook his head as a spare sweat droplet oozed past his cotton bonnet and down into the corner of his eye.

Another plate on the pass-through. Another bang on the bell. Another bellow of "Order up." Maybe he couldn't dance, but boy, could he ever grill.

He scooped the eggs onto his spatula and from there onto a waiting parslied plate, put the mushrooms and onions on the side and sprinkled the whole plate with cheese. Up on the pass-through; bang on the bell; "order up."

The hamburger was the only item left on Ryan's grill. Ryan flipped the patty, topped it with a slice of American cheese and a giant slab of onion and stepped back from the grill to breathe for a minute.He sucked in just enough air to get a whiff of his own sweat and blew that breath back out. Then he pulled a hamburger bun from the rack behind him and rolled the halves across the butterer. He dropped the bread into the toaster. While he waited for the halves to slide through, he grabbed a plate and loaded it with potato chips and a pickle spear from the cold bin.

He stuck a gloved hand into the ever-present parsley tub and shook loose a sprig for the edge of the plate. He didn't know why every plate had to have parsley, but Joyce had insisted. She said it was some sort of rule for diners and the omission of parsley could lead to banning from the International Organization of Professional Greasy Spoons. Ryan had laughed, but Joyce hadn't, so he still didn't know whether it was a joke.

Ryan pulled the bun halves from the toaster, added the cooked patty and put the whole thing on the plate. When Margie answered the bell, he stopped her.

"Would you ask Joyce if I can take a break?" he said.

"Sure, Atwood," she said, grabbing the plate with her usual wink and swish.

Ryan wondered whether Margie even knew she was doing it, or whether she had been working as a waitress so long that the flirting was like walking, just part of what she was.

He looked at the spatula in his plastic-gloved hand and watched it automatically scraping the grill without Ryan's conscious participation. He decided to think about other things, like the mess around his work area. Ryan put down the spatula and started rubbing a wet sponge across the grease splatters on the counter.

"Hey, Atwood," Margie said, peeking a curly head through the pass-through. "You're clear to take 10."

"Thanks," Ryan said.

He put the sponge back in its disinfectant bath and took off his gloves, tossing them in the open-mouthed blue rubber trash can as he went by. He moved through the kitchen, peeling off his greasy apron and hanging it on a hook by the back door. The food-service bonnet followed. Out the door into the alley and Ryan was free at last. Or free for 10 minutes. Ten precious minutes. He glanced at his watch. Mark.

He didn't cheat Joyce. Not when she had been so good to him, giving him a job fresh out of juvie, with only his scarred face, fresh GED and earnest begging to recommend him as a dishwasher. And then later she had trusted him when he said he could learn how to cook.

Ryan's days in construction had always been numbered, but he thought maybe he could stay in Newport and work for Joyce. She had said she would give him enough shifts to fill out a week. The money wouldn't be as good, but he could still make ends meet. He wouldn't be able to send money to other people, but he could make the rent on his room, and he could still see Summer. Ryan started doing some numbers in his head as he walked down the alley.

At Nina's, like most California establishments, smokers had been banished to the great outdoors. Ryan had given up smoking during his state-sponsored 18-month cold-turkey program, but he still liked to hang out near the addicts, suck up some cheap secondhand smoke and remember what it was like to be part of the tobacco brethren.

He squatted against the wall, still doing math in his head, around the corner from the diner's smoking customers, listening to the gossip about people he didn't know. It was cheaper than television and often more entertaining.

Tonight's dish-fest appeared to focus on someone named Holly and her pool boy. Ryan wondered whether it was Summer's friend Holly. All the Newport people seemed to know one another. Of course, about half of them were named Holly or Britney, so it was hard to be sure.

"Yeah, she thought they were so sneaky," one man said. "But Britney said when she went over for a Newpsie planning meeting, there was a service truck out front. She finally found Holly out by the poolhouse, get this, with her shirt buttoned wrong."

"Did Britney see the doer of the deed?" a second voice said.

"Naw, he must have been hiding his naked trash ass inside the poolhouse, because Holly wouldn't let Britney go in there," the first voice said.

"Holly has always been a tramp," the second man said. "Remember when she was chasing Luke right in front of Marissa, then Marissa killed herself?"

"Yeah, I wouldn't be surprised to see Holly as the body shots girl in a Chino bar," a third man said. "She's almost as skanky as Julie Cooper."

The men laughed.

"Nobody's that big a ho," the second man said. "But I don't know who Holly thinks she's going to marry when the judge kicks off. I mean, would you want a piece of that ass now?"

"After it's been screwing the help?" the first man said. "Like hell. You can catch diseases that way. Hey, speaking of that, have you heard who Summer Roberts is fucking these days?"

"She's been running around with Seth Cohen, but she's obviously his beard," the second man said. "No chance of diseases there."

"Word," the first man said. "Chip is still pretty bummed that Summer dumped him. He thinks she's screwing some construction worker with no education and dirt in his fingernails."

"No way," the second man said. "Her dad would go into orbit. Cut her off. Throw her out of the house."

"I heard it was a guy she met at college," the third voice said. "Some English major."

"No way," the second man said again. "That's as bad as dating Seth Cohen. Who would want to go out with her after that?"

"Don't be so hasty, my good man," the first man said. "At least we know she's an easy lay."

They laughed again. Ryan heard the noise of a shoe rubbing out the ash on a cigarette.

"You ready to go inside?" the first man said.

"Yeah," the third man said. "I want some cobbler."

More shoe rubbing. Ryan sat in the dark, unseen, unmoving. His breaths grew more shallow and then deepened again. He closed his eyes, watching the dark inside his head, then opened them. He checked his watch. Time to get off his nasty trash ass and serve those customers their cobbler.


	21. Part 21

"Out of Season"

Part 21

By Sister Rose

The characters of "The O.C." belong to Fox, and no infringement is intended in this fictional work.

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After a week, Ryan had finally gotten responses to all his letters to his family. His mom's letter was a heart-felt "get stuffed, you ungrateful jackass." Ryan supposed the rehab wasn't taking as well as it could have.

His dad's letter had the definite feel of "so long, sucker," which made Ryan wonder whether his dad had been in a halfway house or just conning his only working son for money.

Trey had begged Ryan to please find at least an extra 20 bucks each month for him. Said it would make a big difference. Ryan had seen Trey's swollen, beaten face on the occasions when Ryan hadn't been able to come up with money, and he knew it was true.

Joyce had paid Ryan under the table for the extra shift he had worked. He had sent Trey the money from that shift.

Arturo's mom had made Arturo write Ryan and offer him a job and a place on the couch. Ryan knew the family didn't have room for the intruder, but he was going to take the offer for a couple of weeks. He had called from Nina's to make the arrangements. So he had a new place to stay and a new place to work.

Then he gave notice at Nina's and tried to ignore the crying waitresses. He hadn't thought they liked him. It would have made him sad, if he were soft enough to get sad over people coming and going from his life.

Somehow, and he wasn't quite sure how, Ryan Atwood had started depending on Summer for advice about big and small things in his life.

He didn't think it would play well, though, if he asked her for advice on how to leave her. She would probably logically consider the problem, plan out a complete, workable strategy and then kill him.

Those contradictions made him laugh just thinking about them. And that was another thing about Summer. He had gotten accustomed to laughing when he was with her. But he was going to get over it. He had to. It was for her own good.

When he had said goodbye to her after her spring break week, she didn't know that it was the last goodbye.

She didn't know that he was protecting her the only way he could. She didn't know strawberry season was over.

Ryan had kissed Summer lightly, so softly, like kissing the edge of a flower, and he had let her go. He had watched out the window of his periwinkle room as her red convertible drive away, taking her back to the places where she should have stayed.

Ryan turned around and dug the peaches box out of the back of his closet. Time to refill the box.

Summer would get over him soon enough. She didn't need him.

And Seth didn't need Ryan either. He had Summer now for friendship and maybe more. Seth and Summer had Newport in common and all their acquaintances and their gossip and their parties and their lifestyle. They could take care of each other. They didn't need him. Ryan had been fooling himself to think they ever had.

He had put everything of Summer's back into the peaches box, including the tasseled bed cover and the slinky, silky sheets with pulled threads where the springs had poked through. The tiny refrigerator he unplugged and put by the door so she wouldn't have to carry it far. The peaches box went on top of the polished brown wicker chair. With a chintz cushion in peach and periwinkle.

Garage sale, his ass. The idea of her thinking she could fool him made him laugh and he didn't know why he got a little weepy, too.

Tomorrow would be D-Day, Discovery Day, when everyone in Newport who knew or cared about Ryan -- both of them -- would find out he had left them behind.

Ryan had written a note for Summer and put it on top of the peaches box. She would find it tomorrow. He had written a note for Seth and left it with Joyce. Seth would get it tomorrow.

All Ryan had to do was put his clothes in a box and drive away. So far, though, he hadn't done it. Was he waiting around for a big farewell scene? All leaving took was ... leaving. He had known that since he was 16.

Ryan tipped back his brown bottle and gulped beer. He didn't drink often enough to handle alcohol well, and this was his second bottle. He was getting bleary around the edges and maybe a little maudlin. He couldn't think of any other reason why he would be sitting in the dark on his bare mattress worrying about two rich kids whose trust funds could take care of them.

One more big gulp, and Ryan chastised himself for even thinking about staying.

He ran over his reasoning again.

Item the first: He was never going to be rich. Summer and Seth were.

Item the second: If he stayed in Newport, he would end up working for one of them.

Item the third: He wanted to be their friend, not their hired help. That wasn't going to happen either way. If he stayed in Newport it wouldn't, and if he went back to Chino it wouldn't.

Item the fourth: Summer didn't need Ryan for anything but sex. Seth didn't need Ryan for anything at all.

Item the fifth and final: Being in a dead-end relationship with Summer was breaking his heart.

There. It was out. He wasn't strong enough to keep on being her nasty-ass side piece. He kept feeling like a cheater, like a loser, like a gigolo. Truth to tell, Ryan could never be Summer's man. He had known that. He had told her that. Why had he allowed himself to forget it? She was beyond his reach and always had been. Maybe Summer had been willing to lower herself to be with him, and that was fine while it was a secret. Ryan now had proof, though, that it wasn't fine any more. He had to let her go.

He should find a nice Chino girl who knew about the world, one who would be satisfied that Ryan worked hard and didn't beat her. He would try to be satisfied that she kept the house clean and didn't drink. Together they could make a solid life, paying taxes, paying bills, staying out of jail.

It wasn't much of a dream, but it was Ryan's. If he could make it come true, that would be enough.

All he had to do was forget Summer. He had to, so he would. He had to forget about olive skin, peach lips and soft toes. He got off the bed, unsteadily placing the bottle on the floor, and lifted the mattress. Summer's Cosmo. The one with the model who kind of looked like Summer, if Ryan squinted his eyes a little.

Ryan sat back on the bed with the hard landing of someone who is happy to find a flat surface and not fall.

He lay back, holding the magazine in the air above him at arms' length, twisting it one way, then the other to see it in the light coming through the window. He brought the Cosmo close to his face and sniffed. The perfume samples inside weren't Summer's brand, but their overpowering fragrance made him think of her -- and made him want to sneeze.

He put the magazine on his chest and crossed his arms over it.

Beautiful Summer. Sweet, tart Summer. He was really going to miss her.

Those thoughts followed him into sleep.

He woke still clutching the Cosmo, the sun shining hotly on his closed eyes and heating up the dirty, naked mattress below him. Ryan's mouth tasted like old beer, dirty socks and infected rat corpse. His head throbbed below slimy hair pasted to an itching scalp.

Ryan looked at the magazine. He set his jaw and crossed the room, opened the peaches box and put the Cosmo inside. It was Summer's, not his. If he had wanted a picture of her, he should have asked. And he didn't need a picture. A picture would help him remember when what he needed to do was forget.

Ryan showered, mind set on forgetting. He got dressed, mind set on forgetting. Ryan dressed in his oldest ripped jeans and an undershirt that let his muscles show. He needed to look like he belonged in Chino again. The best way to avoid fights was to look as if he could win them.

He unchained his punching bag and put it in the back of the truck, recoiling as the Newport sunshine bounced off his white pickup and hammered his eyes when he opened the door.

He pulled all his clothes out and one by one folded them, paying no particular attention to the khakis and blue shirt Summer had bought him. No particular attention at all. When he had moved into this room, he had just two changes of clothes. Now he had enough that he needed to put them in a cardboard box.This one had held cans of apples. It had no memories. Except of the first time Ryan had gotten apple cobbler for Seth and topped it with ice cream and the two of them had talked, just as if they were friends, just as if it were a friendship that had a chance.

Ryan returned his mind to forgetting.

He carried his box of clothes out to his pickup then went back inside. There was nothing left that said Ryan Atwood had ever lived there. He wondered whether he was destined to go through life leaving no trace of his existence.

His eyes crossed the empty periwinkle room, seeing laughing, pouting, dancing memories of Summer everywhere, and landed on the wicker chair.

Ryan strode over purposefully and moved the peaches box to the stained, bare twill of the mattress. He picked up the chair and the periwinkle-peach cushion and carried them out, heaving them over the side into the back of his pickup.

He got behind the wheel, rolled down the window and rested his arm on the door frame. He started the pickup, not looking toward the door of the place he had never been able to call home. Ryan had never had a home and where he was going wasn't home either. He killed the ignition.

He thought for a minute about Summer and Seth, then clenched his teeth. He could stay. Summer and Seth would like it if he did. But he knew he was bad for them. He started the pickup again and did the right thing.

Ryan Atwood drove away from Newport. He didn't look back.

--30--

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AN: Yes, friends, that's really the end. And you can't say I didn't warn you how it would end, because it's there in the title, and I mentioned it again halfway through with the whole "strawberries out of season" schtick.

Let me say again how much I appreciate all your thoughts and comments. This story was written completely before I posted the first part, but I should tell you that I've been furiously rewriting and adapting and updating -- and giving you one unexpected chapter -- because of the comments you have left. I have learned so much about plotting and story structure from all of you!

I was a little surprised at how many people were interested in the Kirsten/Sandy split. I threw that in there mostly as a way to explain why Sandy hadn't been involved in Ryan's life at least as his lawyer. But so many people have commented that I'm working on another story in this weird AU that may focus a little more on the Cohens minus one. I'm slow, though, so look for it around Christmas.

Until then, thanks again for traveling with me/Rose.


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